


This Is Jefferson's Fault

by Epicfailingagain, willowoak_walker



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Henry Laurens gets his own warning tag, M/M, Modern AU, Transmasculine Character, because he is a terrible parent, passive-aggressive suits, slurs in chapter 8, trans!Burr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 32,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epicfailingagain/pseuds/Epicfailingagain, https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowoak_walker/pseuds/willowoak_walker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr made a decision, and regretted it for the rest of his life.<br/>And this time, it <i>wasn't</i> shooting Hamilton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. WE WERE SOBER

**Author's Note:**

> Epicfailingagain titles the chapters, _it's not my fault._  
>  NO REGRETS teehee -Epicfailingagain

This is the part of the story that no-one believes: we were both sober. It was Vegas, the man I’d loved for years and Burr had fought with for as long had just gotten married, and the liquor was flowing for everybody else. I was drinking water.

Inexplicably, so was Burr. 

“Not drinking?” I asked him. He shrugged, typically ambiguous. 

“You?” 

“Fucks with my meds,” I said, leaning on the wall. I looked past him, idly searching for someone else sober. Mulligan was looking at me again. I wasn’t an undergrad any more, he really didn’t need to do that. “Eliza’s glowing.”

“Yes,” Burr said, and sipped his water idly, “They both are.” He stared blankly ahead for a moment. “Think the first kid will take nine months?”

“Ha!” I found them in the crowd, dancing again. “Not likely.” We stood in silence for a moment. “I got in from Bangladesh this morning,” I offered. 

“You must be jetlagged,” Burr said. 

“Yep,” I said. “I think it’s about four in the morning for me, but I can’t fucking tell anymore.”

“I—” Burr sighed and ran his hand over his head, “I need some advice.”

“Sure,” I said, “Medical?”

“Well,” he said, “Sort of. I think I’m pregnant.”

“Congratulations!” I said, and then caught the look on his face. “I’m sorry. Is everything all right?”

“Burr!” Burr and I both jumped. Hamilton was _loud._ “Laurens! You’re here!”

“Yes,” I said, “Congratulations, Ham.” I smiled. He looked happier than I’d seen him in a long time. Eliza was good for him. 

“Yes,” Burr said, “Congratulations to both of you.”

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Laurens,” Eliza said, leaning forward on her husband’s arm, “I know you’re very busy, and had to come a long way.” 

“To be sure,” I said. 

“John!” Hamilton grinned, holding fiercely to his wife, “You oughta join us later. The three of us can have some fun.” 

“I think,” Eliza said sharply, “That now is not the time.” 

“Yes, dear,” Hamilton said. He looked at me pathetically. Ugh.

“I’m far too tired for anything much today,” I said. “Tonight. Go back to your dancing; I’m on my way to sleep.”

“Aw,” Hamilton said, “What about you, Burr, you up for a dance?” Burr shook his head, smiling. 

“I’m also tired, I’m afraid. You have a good time.” They smiled and swanned off, beautiful and proud. 

“ _Are_ you all right?” I turned back to Burr.

“I’m fine,” Burr said, “Just freaking out a little.”

“Understandably,” I said, “Who’s the lucky, well, the other lucky parent?”

“Ugh,” Burr said, “Everyone’s going to be asking that.” I nodded apologetically. “Everyone.” He stared off into space again. “This was not the plan.”

“The plan?” I asked when he didn’t go on.

“It’s hard enough already,” he said, “The D-Rs are all for traditional values, and,” he waved at himself, “I have enough trouble with them.”

“Sounds like you need a spouse,” I remarked. “So you can point at them.” He snorted.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “I’ll just put an ad in the paper: Wanted: One spouse with a dick willing to take responsibility for a child who isn’t theirs. Transphobes need not apply.”

“Would I do?” I was half-joking, but only half. It would— well, I’d always liked Burr. He looked me up and down, eyebrows raised. 

“I think you would,” he said. It was probably a brush-off. “How good are you in bed?” I laughed. 

“Please, I dated _Ham_ ,” I said, “He accepts nothing less than excellence.” Burr chuckled and hid his face in his cup. “No, I’m serious, if you think it’s that important, I’ll marry you.”

“Really?” He had every reason to be dubious; the whole situation was absurd. “Are you drunk?”

“I don’t drink,” I said, “I’m in Vegas to watch a disaster marry a saint, that’s trippy enough.”

“No-one will ever believe us,” Burr said, and took my arm. 

“Believe what?”

“That we got married in Vegas while _sober._ ”


	2. This Time For Realsies

One of Mulligan’s boxes was sitting in front of the door to the apartment. I dropped my suitcase next to it to unlock the door. Getting _through_ the door was a little bit of a problem, but I pulled it off without breaking anything.

“Honey, your suit’s here,” I yelled in the general direction of the kitchen as I dragged my suitcase around the door. 

“My suit?” Burr appeared, smiling. “I didn’t order a suit.” He collected my suitcase and kissed me. “You’re here, that’s what’s important. Didn’t catch it?”

“Got it, got over it,” I said, “Nothing too bad. Just a nasty flu.”

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about influenza,” Burr said, which was undeniably true. 

“Hazard of the job,” I pointed out, holding the top of the box so the bottom fell out, “Medical professionals get sick, that’s a thing. And I do work with plenty of nasty bugs.”

“Did you run out of Purell again?”

“No, it just enjoyed being completely full in my room. Imagine if some gay guy pumped your head and rubbed your innards on his hands day after day,” I said sarcastically, “And once you were empty, callously threw you away like an ex.” I pulled the mysterious suit out of of the box and held it up. “So what did _I_ do to piss off Mulligan this time?” I muttered. A note fell out, but I ignored it. It wouldn’t have anything informative on it. 

Well, the suit definitely wasn’t for me. Firstly, it was black with mulberry trim, and mulberry was Burr’s color, according to Mulligan. Well, there were those suits with mulberry lining that Mulligan sent me in the months soon after the wedding. Not quite as passive aggressive as that tux right after the wedding, but darn close. 

Anyway, this one certainly wasn’t for me. The shoulders were too broad and it was definitely not made for someone my height. 

“So what did _you_ do to piss off Mulligan?” I asked as it unfolded.

“Did I? I thought you got the free passive-aggressive suits and I just get what I order and pay for.” 

I took a good look at the suit. It was a normal three-piece affair with a significantly larger front bit where the stomach was—wait. The stomach? I turned the suit around so Burr could see it. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?” I asked.

“That was rude of him," Burr said. "I couldn’t figure out how to tell you, except for not over the phone.” He shrugged. “I think I’m pregnant. I’ve got an appointment with the doctor later this week.” He looked at me, doing that foot-shuffle thing he thought I didn’t notice. “Would you like to come?”

“Of course!” I said, “Congratulations!” I dropped the suit — Mulligan would curse me out for treating it so casually — and hugged Burr. He dropped his head into my shoulder. My smile faded. That was not a happy Burr gesture. “Babe?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Burr said,“I was wrong last time.”

“Yeah,” I said, “And you might be wrong this time. It’s not a big deal.” I paused, rubbing his shoulders idly. “If you want a kid, we can work on that.” 

“You don’t mind?” Burr didn’t look up.

“No,” I said, “I was ready to help you with whatever you need three years ago, I’m not less ready now.” I paused. “You do want this child?”

“Yes,” Burr answered quickly. “Of course I do.” I kissed the top of his head fondly. 

“Then all’s well,” I said. My stomach grumbled obnoxiously. Right. 15 hours with terrible food and a guy with very strange ideas on the lack of bridge in public schools. “I’m _hungry_.”

I abandoned Burr and opened the freezer expecting to find the eight quarts of goat soup I made before I left.Instead, I was greeted by multiple tubs of ice cream whose families I _clearly_ dishonored as they immediately attacked my person, no soup in sight. I did however, now have a bruised toe. “Ouch!” I cried, trying to hop with dignity, losing my balance, and grabbing the counter before I completely lost my balance. I straightened myself up using the counter for leverage.

“What’s left of your soup’s in the fridge,” Burr said, “Also, it’s the only thing I can keep down at 2am.” He looked adorably apologetic. 

I sighed and hobbled back over to put the ice-cream back in the freezer.Then I grabbed the soup container. It was only half-full. I threw what was left into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave before turning back to Burr. “What did you say about _maybe not_ being pregnant?”

Burr shrank further in his chair. “Definitely might be pregnant?”

I rolled my eyes and gave Burr a kiss. “That was more ice cream than we’ve ever owned in our entire marriage. Also you usually hate that soup.”

“I don’t _hate_ it,” he said, “I just prefer gumbo.” He glanced up at me, smiling. “I bought you more goat,” he offered.

“Hm, I guess I’ll stay,” I said, “As long as you improve your pillow talk.” Burr laughed.

“But knot theory,” he said. 

“Ah, yes, the Woof theory is the very best thing to talk about in bed.” Burr shuddered dramatically. 

“It’s the Arf Invariant!”

“Yes, dear.”


	3. Dammit Hamilton

Jefferson was slightly later than I’d anticipated. Drat, now I owed Angelica twenty dollars. Perhaps he’d had trouble getting out of bed this morning. I certainly hadn’t enjoyed waking up.

“Burr,” he said, putting his head around the door of my office in the way Emily particularly didn’t like, “Have you seen my intern?” I sighed. 

“You have a lot of interns,” I said. “Be more specific. Ideally, give me a name.” 

“Elizabeth something,” he said, “Blonde, blue eyed, veeeeery busty,” he made a gesture to indicate improbably round and gravity-defying breasts, “Very efficient in filing, too.” She was.

“Mm,” I said, “Ask Emily, why don’t you? Most interns give paperwork to my secretary rather than bothering me.” 

“I did,” Jefferson said, “She couldn’t remember.” He tried to glare at me. I’ve been glared at by President Washington and Eliza Hamilton. This was not nearly so impressive.

“Why should she?” I asked, “It isn’t her job to keep track of your interns.” Jefferson humphed. I raised an eyebrow at him. “Is there anything I can actually help you with?” 

“Get Hamilton to stop blocking the farm subsidies,” he said. 

“You know that will just result in 50 more papers debating the topic, right?”

“As long as it also results in budget items, I don’t _care_.” Jefferson stalked off, leaving my door open. I got up and went to apologize to Emily. 

“Her name isn’t Elizabeth,” Emily said in great irritation, “It’s Elspeth. _Really_.”

“That isn’t the worst he’s done with names,” I said, and leant on the edge of her desk. “Who’d she go to?”

“ _Hamilton_ ,” Emily said. She gestured my attention down the hallway.

I wondered where Elspeth was as Hamilton came down the hallway towards us, looking frazzled. He hadn’t looked this bad since before his marriage when he forgot about little things like sleeping and eating for a week in order to prepare to debate me on healthcare.

“Burr, I need help.” Behind him, panting slightly, was the intern in question carrying a massive binder.

“Oh?” My stomach twisted again. 

“Eliza’s sick,” Hamilton said, and collected the binder from Elspeth, “Thank you, Elspeth. I owe you coffee. I have a speech,” he said, turning back to me, “And it’s too long.” 

“Of course it is,” I said, “Everything you write is too long. So?”

“I took out all the bits about the Middle East,” he said, “And I can’t tell what else are different papers.” I sighed. 

“Give it here,” I said, collecting the binder. “Elspeth, Secretary Jefferson is looking for you.” She glanced down and bit her lip.

“I know,” she said as she looked up, “He keeps staring at me, so I’m dodging him.” She grinned toothily. “Ifty bet me I couldn’t keep out of his sight for a week. I win in two hours.” I nodded. Ifty could have been one of mine, I had an Iftikhar, or it might have been one of Hamilton’s. 

“All right, Hamilton,” I said, and sighed again, “Let’s see this monstrosity.” Hamilton followed me into my office, sat in my spare chair, and pulled out his laptop. I opened the binder. “Hamilton,” I said after a moment, “What is this on?”

“The farm subsidies business,” Hamilton said. He didn’t look up from his screen. “Jefferson doesn’t understand economics.” True.

“Hamilton,” I said, “You’re talking about _banks_.”

“Yes!” This time he did look up. “It all ties into the banks! Predatory lending is the primary reason the problems Jefferson keeps citing come up, and we need to—” I held up a hand to stop him, swallowing hard on a moment of nausea. 

“Farm subsidies, Hamilton. Focus.” He blinked at me innocently. I made wordless grumbling noises as I pulled out the highlighters. I’d had a system when Hamilton was in my class, and I thought I still remembered it. 

Hamilton was, blessedly, silent, except for the furious click of his keyboard. I plodded my way through the first few (irrelevant) pages, color-coding. Healthcare was John-blue, energy was wrong-topic red, race-relations got to be shut-up fuchsia, and so on. Help, he’d somehow drawn foreign policy into this. I finished my glass of ginger ale and ran out of colors. I gave up and used a sharpie on anything about nuclear weapons.

I was about half-way through, a few hours later, when I felt my stomach make its displeasure known. 

“Shit,” I said, and bolted toward the bathroom. I made it in time. 

When I got back, Emily looked at me sympathetically. Or possibly desperately; Hamilton was hovering over the corner of her desk. 

“Hamilton,” I said, “What the fuck does North Korea have to do with anything?”

“Oh,” Hamilton said, “I knew there was something else I should take out. Skip the next four pages, I’ll write a different speech with that.” He looked me up and down, considering. I glared at him in my best disappointed librarian fashion. “Are you all right, Burr?”

“My stomach’s been a bit opinionated lately,” I said, “Your concern is touching. Sorry, Emily.” Emily shook her head at me. 

“It’s been more than a week, Senator,” she said. I looked at her tiredly. Drat.

“More than a week?” Hamilton bustled around Emily’s desk to feel my forehead. 

“Hamilton,” I said.

“You aren’t warm,” he said, “Have you been able to keep things down at all? Are you drinking enough?”

“Hamilton.” I did my best imitation of Washington’s just-this-side-of-fury tone. It had absolutely no effect. 

“This is serious,” Hamilton said, stepping back. His eyes were wide and sad as he looked at me. “You could be really sick.”

“I’m _fine_ ,”I snapped, and stormed back into my office. Hamilton followed me.

“That’s what Eliza said before she collapsed,” he said. I sighed and poured myself another ginger ale before sitting back down to Hamilton’s abomination. “Burr,” he said. I ignored him. Skip the next four pages, hmm? I flipped forward. “Burr!” Universal healthcare? Not this paper. I started marking paragraphs, and Hamilton grabbed my writing hand. “Burr,” he said, “You need to see a doctor.”

“Let. Go.” I spat the words through gritted teeth as I stood up, pulling my hand back. I managed to trip on the cord to Hamilton’s computer and fall over in a tangle. Hamilton caught me. “Fuck,” I said. 

“If you wanted a hug, Burr, all you had to do was ask.” Hamilton, damn him, was grinning.

“I fucking tripped.” I steadied myself and pulled away. 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but it would be a lie,” Hamilton said, letting go of me, “I’m not sorry about caring about you. Please see someone about,” he waved vaguely, “Whatever this is.” 

“I’m going tomorrow,” I said, “Calm _down_.” Hamilton’s smile returned, and he dropped back into his seat. 

“I’m never calm,” he said.


	4. HALF THE FEELS

“You’re having twins,” I said. It still hadn’t really sunk in, even after we’d gotten back to the apartment. Burr slumped into his usual place at the kitchen table and dragged out his laptop. He looked exhausted. I kissed his forehead on the way to the counter. “Dinner soon. You think you can handle spaghetti?”

“No tomatoes,” he said from behind me.

“Pesto?” 

“I can do pesto.” I nodded firmly and started reheating the spaghetti from yesterday. Pesto lived in the fridge, unless we were down to the frozen stuff.

“Two placentas,” I said as I found the pesto. “That makes a whole host of health problems unlikely.” I shook my head. “You’re having _twins._ Chicken?”

“We’re having twins,” Burr said sternly, “And they will be children, not chickens.”

I turned around and stuck my tongue out at him. “Do you want chicken on your spaghetti?” 

“Yes, please,” he said. “What shall we name them?”  


“The chickens?” I smirked as I turned back to the fridge. “Big question, though, really.” We were almost out of cooked chicken. I needed to roast some more. “I mean, what _gender_ will you name them?”

“ _We_ ,” Burr snapped with uncharacteristic acid. “You got me pregnant, you can damn well take responsibility for it. Or are you _leaving?_ ”

“No!” I turned around, waving frantically. “No, no, of course not! I’m not going anywhere!” A horrifying possibility occurred to me. “Unless you’re telling me to?”

“No,” Burr said, “No, I don’t want you to go anywhere.” He sighed. “It’s just that you keep saying — They aren’t _my_ children, they’re _our_ children.”

“Our children,” I said. “ _Our_ children. I’m sorry, Aaron. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was leaving the responsibility to you.” I turned back to the food so he couldn’t see my face. “It’s what I’m here for, after all.”

“John,” Burr said.

“Could we name one of them Frances?” I asked, “Or Frank, or France, or something. My sister that died was named that.” She’d been so small. “Or Eleanor, after Mother.” 

“Of course,” Burr said, “We can do that. Not France, though. No matter how much it would amuse Lafayette.”

“No, I was just trying to de-gender it,” I said.

“Frances Eleanor, then, if one turns out to be a girl.” I nodded. I gave up on the knife and tore the rest of the chicken into shreds with my fingers. It went into the spaghetti with the pasta sauce. I stirred them together in the pot. 

“Wait,” I said, catching up with myself, “ _I_ got you pregnant?”

“You were intimately involved,” Burr said, “Though I grant I must take half the responsibility for that.”

“Not what I meant,” I said, “I meant, me, not someone else.” I turned around with the pasta to see Burr staring at with narrowed eyes. 

“Who the _hell_ else do you think might have been involved?” 

“Um,” I said. He was fucking intimidating when he did that. “I don’t know? It wasn’t me last time. Besides, I’m never here.”

Burr shuddered. “That was an entirely different situation. And I don’t plan to repeat that experience.” He spread his hands palm-up in front of him. I put the pasta on the table between them.“You’re the only one I trust that way these days,” he said.

I felt my cheeks heating up, so I turned around and busied myself fetching the plates. “Same,” I managed. 

“Why would I want anyone else when I have you?” Burr was flirting. Burr was _flirting._ It didn’t mean anything. I put the plates down and leant on the counter. 

“Please,” I started, “Don’t—” I hadn’t a fucking clue how to finish that sentence. 

“John?” Burr said. I shook my head vaguely and took deep slow breaths. “John,” Burr said again, putting a hand on my arm. When had he gotten up? I stared down at his hand, dark against my arm. “Talk to me.”

“Burr,” I said. He wasn’t Hamilton, he never had been. I turned toward him. He was looking up at me with nothing but concern. “I—” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s, it’s just that,”I said and shook my head as if I could shake the emotions. “Last time—” 

“You are enough,” Burr said in an almost unrecognizable growl. “You are absolutely enough.” He was angry. 

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, twisting to try to look at him. He pressed my face down into his shoulder.

“I’m not mad at you, John,” he said. “It’s all right. Shh.” He tangled his fingers in my hair and rubbed my back with his other hand. “Everything’s all right.” He kissed my ear. I sighed. 

“I didn’t want to make you upset,” I mumbled. 

“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault.” Burr squeezed me gently. “I’m not upset with you.” I sniffled. “You wanna sit down?” Burr’s voice was kind. I nodded. I pulled out of his hug and he guided me gently towards his old couch. I sank in quickly as he pulled my head into his lap and ran one hand through my hair and the other up and down my back. 

The dam burst and I started crying in truth. 

At some point, it could have been minutes or hours later, I started hiccuping and taking deeper breaths. Wait. Frankincense? Isn’t that a Epiphany hymn? I turned to look up at Burr, who was absentmindedly singing to himself.

“Y-*hic*-you’re a few months la-*hic*-ate for that,” I pointed out. 

“Feeling better?” 

I nodded. 


	5. THE OTHER HALF OF THE FEELS

John looked up at me and managed a smile. His face was still tear-streaked, but he seemed much calmer. 

“You still need a new couch,” he said, “This one is squishy.” He hiccuped. “There’s a spring digging into my butt.”

“I _like_ this couch,” I said. That joke was almost as old as the sofa now. “Dinner?”

“It’ll have gone cold,” John said, sitting up and grabbing a tissue. “I’ll go heat it up.”

“Nah,” I said, “I’ll heat it, you go shower. I know I can’t cook, but I think you can trust me to reheat things.”

“Well, you haven’t given yourself food poisoning yet, so I suppose.” John blew his nose and stood up. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I said, pushing myself out of the couch’s embrace. John went off toward the bathroom, and I headed to the kitchen. The pasta went into the microwave — despite John’s protests, I think it’s better after sitting in the sauce a while. I tracked down the hot chocolate mix while the microwave ran. It was definitely a hot chocolate kind of night. I handed John a mug the moment he stepped through the door. He raised an eyebrow at me. 

He was wearing nothing but his turtle pajama pants. He ought to have looked ridiculous, but I found it endearing. He reached into his pocket with his mug-less hand and produced the ridiculous matching night-cap. He put it on me. Since he only had one hand to do it with, it was lopsided. I adjusted it. He snorted at me. 

“Dinner?” I waved at the table. John served out pasta. “Thank you,” I said. We both bent our heads. I prayed. John was politely silent. “This,” I said after a few mouthfuls, “Is really good pasta.”

“Thanks,” John said. He ate without looking up. I watched him for a a couple moments.

“You wanna talk about it?” John sighed and put his fork down.

“Polyamory works,” he said, still not looking at me. “I mean, look at the Mulligans.”

“Doesn’t work for everyone,” I said, “And the Mulligans are—” Any number of things, including terrifying, but I settled for, “Unusually emotionally open.” 

“Heh,” John said. “Yeah. It’s not, I guess. Not, not,” he flung his hands wide and flopped back in the chair to stare at the ceiling. “It’s not like he was _cheating_ on me.” 

“Mm-hmm,” I said. I caught his hand and rubbed my thumb over his knuckles. He would not be pleased if I destroyed Hamilton. I was riding close enough to the edge plotting against John’s father. 

“I mean, I knew what was going on, he always told me.” John laughed and actually looked at me, smile lopsided, to share the joke. “Sometimes too much, y’know?” I snorted.

“I bet.” Hamilton wouldn’t have thought twice about babbling to John about how much he loved someone else. Mind, Hamilton hadn’t thought twice about babbling about how much he loved John to anyone. 

“He just always had shit to do,” John said, “Except when he was in one of his depressive periods. He’s much better now.”

“So are you,” I said.

“Yeah,” John said, “Yeah. Thank goodness for modern medicine.”He sighed. “We probably shouldn’t have been dating anyone, really, not in that state. Not either of us.” 

“Everything’s better when you’ve got your illness under control,” I said. 

“Uh-huh,” John said. He stared vaguely off into space for a moment, and I wrapped his hand around the cocoa. He actually noticed it then, and drank some. “I don’t know how Eliza deals with it,” he said, incongruously licking off his chocolate mustache, “Always being second-best.” 

“That woman has been taking intimidation lessons from Washington lately,” I said. John snorted. 

“From Lady Washington, more likely,” he said. “She deserves better.”

“ _You_ deserve better,” I said. He looked up at me and chuckled.

“I’ve got you,” he said. I blinked at him. My face grew hot as he grinned at me over the rim of his mug. 

“ _John_ ,” I said. He finished his pasta and wiggled his eyebrows at me. I sighed.

“You done?” I glanced at my plate and nodded. 

“We can do the dishes tomorrow.” I stood up.

“You improved your pillow talk any?” John asked, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the bedroom. 

“I was at a conference recently,” I said. He made a face at me and sighed in exasperation. 

“That is the opposite of improvement,” he said, and picked me up bridal-style. I glared at him. “Well, we’ll see what we can do.”

“You’re incorrigible,” I informed him.


	6. Hamilton, yes. HAMILTON NO.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we rediscover crack.

“Good morning, Emily,” I said on the first day back from the summer recess, “Can you get me a meeting with Senator Pickney some time this week? I need to talk to him.” Emily looked at me oddly. 

“Sure, Aaron,” she said, “You haven’t seen the news, have you?”

“Not recently,” I said, “Oh, you repainted your wheelchair! I like the red.”

“Thank,” she said, and beckoned me over. “You’re going to want to see this.”

I walked behind her desk and looked at her computer screen. The headline, in large letters read: Senator Burr: Who is He and is He Pregnant?

“Really,” I said, “That’s the best they could do?”

“This was Thursday,” Emily said. “Here’s the one from this morning.” She hit the next tab on her computer. This headline read: Senator Burr Married Senator Laurens’ Son at the Hamilton Wedding?

“Well, that escalated—“

“BURR!” A very hated, but very familiar voice yelled from down the hall.

“Shit,” I muttered, straightening up to see Henry Laurens angrily stomping towards me.

“So it’s true?” Emily asked.

“Not now,” I said.

“Why didn’t I know about this?” Henry demanded.

“No one knew, sir, as the amount of press this is currently getting indicates,” I said. Hamilton was going to have kittens.

“YOU MARRIED MY SON AND DIDN’T INVITE ME,” Henry bellowed. “I HAD TO FIND OUT FROM REPORTERS KNOCKING ON MY DOOR THIS MORNING.”

“With all due respect, sir, no one was invited.”

“I’m his FATHER,” Henry spat.

“You were drunk and hitting on Dolly Madison,” I said, “You weren’t going anywhere.” He stared at me. Emily snickered.

“You married my son in Las Vegas,” Henry said, in what would almost have been a reasonable tone if not for his expression, “And were so _ashamed_ of him you didn’t admit to it.”

“Burr,” another voice called down the hall. Oh great. Was he having kittens?

“Yes?” I asked, attempting to contain my rage at Henry. 

“First of all, Eliza says to thank her later. Second of all, why my wedding? Jeez man, you have the worst timing.” I rolled my eyes. “Hi, Henry, don’t you have some major bigotry to be committing?”

Henry sputtered as Emily burst out laughing. 

“Well, it was the first time we’d been in the same city in months,” I told Hamilton, ignoring Henry’s offended babbling, “And it _did_ mean we didn’t have to try to manage the guest list.” Hamilton raised an inquisitive eyebrow at me. “Think about it,” I said, “You and Jefferson don’t exactly get along, not to mention trying to wrangle all of my various cousins, most of whom I haven’t seen in years, _and_ the Laurenses. Oh,” I added, struck, “And we’d have had to schedule it so the Lafayettes could come, and that’s without even mentioning John’s travel schedule.” 

Hamilton sighed. “Fine. That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.” He was taking this way too well. Maybe I owed Eliza more than a ‘thank you’ text. 

“You didn’t ask for my permission before going about this…..thing,” Henry interjected, finally coherent.

“No, firstly because we are both grown adults who can make our own decisions, and secondly, isn’t the groom supposed to ask the _bride’s_ father? I mean, an argument could have been made that John should have asked my parents, but they’re dead.”

“I am the only close living relative either of you have,” Henry spat.

“John has siblings,” I responded, tiredly. “Remember them?”

Hamilton snickered. “No he doesn’t,” He said. “John’s the easiest to bully. The rest of them won’t put up with his shit.”

“No one asked you,” Henry said, glaring at Hamilton.

“No one asked you either,” Hamilton replied. “As far as I can tell, they asked each other, said yes, and snuck out of my wedding.”

“I would have been leaving around then anyway,” I said, “It’s no fun being sober in a room full of drunk people.”

“You took advantage of my son’s drunkenness—” Henry started.

“John doesn’t drink,” Hamilton snapped. 

“And no-one can be drunk for three years straight,” Emily put in. 

“Well, not straight,” Hamilton said. “But the better part of three years, maybe. That was fun.”

I glared at Hamilton. Wasn’t he on my side in this? “Neither of us were drunk, we got married, now we live together very happily and are having twins. Any questions?”

“Just one,” Hamilton said, raising his hand. “Why did Eliza know?”

I stared at him. “I have no idea.”

“Does this have something to do with John getting a PO box about two years ago?” Henry demanded.

“That’s probably how Eliza found out,” I agreed. “She’s smart enough.” To ask Mulligan at least. “Put your hand down Hamilton, we’re not in school.”

“When is John coming home?” Henry asked. “I’d like to have a word with him.”

“I don’t know. His schedule’s very unpredictable,” I replied. 

“That’s code for none of your fucking business,” Hamilton loudly whispered to Emily. Emily snorted.

“God damn it, Burr, he’s my son!”

“And he’s my husband.”

“And he’s my ex,” Hamilton helpfully added. “And good friend when he’s not frustrated with me.”

Henry glared. “I’ll just call the CDC. They’ll tell me when he’s getting home.” Shit.

“You do that,” Hamilton said, cheerfully. “Maybe I’ll join you at the airport with a large sign that says ‘wanker’ and an arrow pointed right at your face.”

“ _Hamilton_ ,” I said. Then, remembering what Henry had said before we were interrupted, “Ah, Senator Laurens? I am not in any way ashamed of my husband. But, given your current behavior, it seems I have every reason to be ashamed of his father.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton added. “John is awesome. Funny, kind, tall, great in bed—”

“Hamilton, really?” I asked.

“You know it’s true,” he said, shrugging. “Hopefully Henry doesn’t. But anyway, he’s a great catch.”

“The one you let get away,” I added.

“Yeah, but now I have Eliza, who is Laurens but comes with better relatives and the mysterious ability to acquire children.”

“It’s not that mysterious,” I said. “Especially if you can talk about how good people are in bed.”

“She came home one day with another one that definitely wasn’t the result of her succeeding in stopping me from working. I say that’s pretty mysterious.”

“We do not need to know about your sex life, Hamilton,” I said, head in hands as Emily continued to laugh.

“Why not? Henry would never come into my office again if he knew. I count that as a plus.”

“Wait, what?” Henry demanded, completely distracted.

“You know that chair you like to sit in, also the file cabinet you occasionally lean on? Also the floor?”

I pulled out my phone to text Eliza to tell her to come get her husband. “Hamilton, no,” I said calmly.

“Hamilton, yes,” Hamilton replied, grinning. He bounced on the balls of his feet.

“HAMILTON, NO,” another voice rang out. Hamilton sighed. 

“But dear, I’m keeping Henry out of my office.”

“You come most trippingly upon your hour,” I quoted, smiling at Eliza. Uses of a classical education. She nodded at me and turned to glare down at her husband. 

“How?” she asked him. 

“He’s providing me with insight into your congress outside of congress,” Henry replied. How old fashioned. Great pun, though.

Eliza sighed. “Alexander, some things should be private.”

“Yes, but Henry will never set foot in our office again,” he said, slightly helplessly.

“No. Hamilton, do you even know how to office politics?”

“I know how to financial system, and not sleep around, and—”

“ANYWAY,” I interjected. How the hell did she deal with this man? “ _I,_ at least, have work to do. So go bicker elsewhere, I am going to review the bills due to appear before the Senate. Good day.” I started back toward my office, then turned around in the door. “Emily, feel free to kick them out.”

“No need,” Hamilton replied. “Henry, go away. No one likes you.”

“Hamilton,” Eliza snapped. 

“Fine. Lunch?” Hamilton threaded one arm through Henry Laurens’ and the other through Eliza’s and marched off with the pair of them. I heard one last “HAMILTON,” this one from Henry, before it was once more blissfully silent. 

“That was fun,” Emily said cheerfully. 

“For you, perhaps,” I said, and went to decode the nonsense my fellow Senators called grammar.


	7. Round Two

I scribbled knots on my notebook and ate my sandwich with my left hand. Unraveling planar isotopy was giving me way too many cases, and I couldn’t figure which ones were relevant. This set was being unusually obdurate. 

My phone rang. I checked the caller ID and answered, smiling.

“Hello, Mary,” I said, “What’s up?” 

“You will never guess what the drama is this time,” she said. 

“Uh-huh?”

“You remember Nadi, the sensible one?” I made an agreeing noise. “They turn out to be crushing real hard on Helen. Helen’s _terrible_ , Burr, she keeps calling Nadi the wrong pronouns.”

“Oh, no,” I said, “Poor Nadi.”

“Uh-huh,” Mary said, “I put sand in Helen’s bed. I don’t know if she noticed.”

“Well, sand might have come from lots of places,” I said, “You swim there, don’t you?”

“Yup,” Mary said, “I’m going to ask her all sorts of questions about the Arab Spring tomorrow, she knows nothing about it, and Korie’s gonna have to correct her. Did you really marry my brother?”

“Yes, I did,” I said, “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. I know _you_ wouldn’t have told your father, but if he found out you knew…” Mary was safely in South Carolina, far away from Henry and his possible attempts at vengeance. 

“Huh,” Mary said, “Is that the real reason?” 

“It’s what John told me,” I said, “We didn’t tell anyone in politics, either. No-one it might get back to your father from.”

“Huh,” Mary said again. I held my breath. “Okay.” Thank you, God. “If you break his heart, I’ll break your neck.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’d deserve it.” Mary laughed. “How’s camp going other than Helen?” I asked.

“Fucking _awesome_ ,” Mary said.

“Language!” I said. Mary giggled.

“Burr, really, it’s great. I’m having so much fun!” I smiled. “Thanks for getting me in,” she said.

“You got yourself in,” I reminded her, “I just helped with the paperwork.” 

“Sure,” Mary said dubiously. What did Henry do to his children? “I’m sorry, Burr, I gotta go,” Mary said, “Decisions are happening over dinner.” Meaning lunch. Southerners.

“Knock ‘em dead, Mary,” I said.

“Bye!” Mary hung up on me cheerfully. I smiled down at my phone and went, reflexively, to message John. He was without wifi and uncontactable. I remembered moments before hitting send. Wouldn’t have been the first time I forgot. 

I glanced down at my knots, but I’d lost my train of thought. Instead I pulled up the list of colleges I thought Mary might be interested in, and went back to checking out the ones I’d had interns from. _Definitely_ not Colgate. Too much drinking and racism and not enough Middle Eastern Studies.

A piece of paper flew past my vision and missed the recycling by about a foot. _Emily_. Oh well. I guess she did have enough of a reason to be annoyed. I got up to move it to the bin. When I looked up, Jefferson was looking at me with an eyebrow raised. _Oh_.

“Hello, Burr,” he said as I straightened up.

“Secretary Jefferson,” I said. “Can I help you, or are you just here to ask incredulous questions about my marriage?”

“Congratulations,” Jefferson said. I opened my mouth to thank him, but he kept going before I could get the words I out. I should have known it wouldn’t be that pleasant. “What a lovely political move. It might have worked better if you’d asked Senator Laurens to the wedding.”

“Perhaps,” I said, and sat back down. “Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Secretary? The state of our wars in the Middle East, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, Senator,” Jefferson said. “I am more concerned with issues within our government, just now.” 

“That is surely the business of the Secretary of State,” I said. 

“In fact, it is,” Jefferson said, “Enlighten me: will the Democratic-Republican party disown you for fostering internal dissent?” I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Senator Burr?” Emily had wheeled herself into the doorway of my office. “The President is here.”

“Thank you, Emily,” I said. Jefferson turned around as Emily went back to her desk. 

“Secretary Jefferson,” the President said as she walked in the door, “I didn’t expect to see y’all here.”

“Madame President.” Jefferson straightened up to his full height, as tall as the President was these days, with the way age had stooped Washington. Washington stared him down and stepped further in to my office. I stood up and leaned on my desk. 

“Close the door on you way out.” Washington turned away from Jefferson, visibly dismissing him. “Senator Burr. I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Ma’am?” I said. Jefferson hadn’t actually closed the door properly. I went to take care of it. 

“Sit down, Burr,” Washington said, “Pregnant wo- people- tire easily.” She closed the door herself.

“I’ve noticed, ma’am,” I said as I resumed my seat. Turns out making people with your body is exhausting.

“Congratulations,” Washington said. “It seems you have excellent taste in men. It’s a pity I can’t say the same for John.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “It is one of his few faults.” Washington snorted.

“I see you can trim your sails to any wind,” she said. “I don’t know how you talked John into this, but if you hurt him I will see you lying in your grave.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “Though Mary will fight you for the privilege.” Washington outright laughed at that. “I don’t know how I got this lucky,” I admitted, “John was actually the one who suggested we get married, but I presented him with the situation.” Washington raised a dubious eyebrow at me. “It was also to some extent Jefferson’s fault.” I raised my own eyebrows. “I suppose I ought to thank him for that.”

Washington shook her head at me. 

“I am serious.”

“I don’t doubt you, ma’am,” I said, “I know John values your opinion. You could persuade him to divorce me if you wanted to.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” she said. 

“You and me both." 


	8. Major Airport Bigotry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slurs. Henry Laurens level slurs.

I hunted through ‘news’ sites until I found one doing a _Secretary Hamilton in Public_ livestream. The location was the Dullas Airport, where John should be coming in in five minutes. 

“Henry!” Hamilton bounced cheerfully toward Henry Laurens, arms wide-spread in apparent welcome. I snickered and picked up my embroidery. This should be fun.

“What are you doing here, Hamilton?” Henry Laurens looked livid already. 

“Well, Burr’s pregnant and supposed to avoid stress, so I tied him to a chair,” Hamilton said. I pulled out my phone and texted Eliza a laughing emoji. “And I distracted Eliza with a 300-page paper,” Hamilton went on, “That needs to be edited down to 5 by tomorrow, so she’s busy for the next three hours. Hence my glorious presence. Why are you here? You’ve never greeted John before.” Thank God for that. 

“I’m his father. Should I not be here to welcome my son home?” Being alone in the apartment, I gave Henry the finger. 

“Since when have you been anything remotely close to something that could be described as welcoming towards John?” Hamilton turned to one of his interns, a small East-Asian femme person I didn’t recognize, and took a rolled up piece of paper from them.

“Since when has my family been any of your business?” Henry glared at Hamilton. He was neither of the Washingtons, though, so it was not particularly effective. I chuckled and began another flower.

“Since I dated one of your children and got to see how you treat them,” Hamilton said. I dropped my embroidery to text him KEEP HIS OTHER KIDS OUT OF IT. Henry Laurens might well blame his children if Hamilton brought them up too much. “We might’ve stayed together if you weren’t so terrible for his mental health,” Hamilton said. His phone went off twice. I was slightly disturbed to discover that I recognized his ‘New Text’ noise. 

“Perhaps you ought to answer that,” Henry said, “It might be someone trying to knock some sense into you.” Nice. I had to give the man credit for that one. 

“I stole some from your son-in-law when tying him up,” Hamilton said. “He has too much most of the time.” I stuck my tongue out at him, not that he could see it. Or would care.

Latasha texted me ‘Found Dr. Laurens’. I send her thanks and didn’t mention that John was _technically_ a Nurse Practitioner. 

“If he’d had sense he would’ve asked me first,” Henry said. He sounded like a petulant child. 

“For the last time,” Hamilton said, unrolling his paper, “The MAN is supposed to ask the WOMAN’s parents. Under the mistaken assumption that women are less competent.” He turned to another intern — was that Elspeth? Yes. —- and took a ruler from her. “This is an outdated custom and you need to get over it,” he went on. “For the record, Eliza asked me and pulled out the wedding plans after I said yes. Her parents had no say. They didn’t know till they got the invitation.” I started hunting for an appropriate emoticon to text Eliza.

“What on earth possessed her to do that?” Henry Laurens sounded baffled as well as offended.

“The power of love? My incredible debate skills? My ability to occasionally display the capability to be a good person? How would I know? Ask her.” How self-aware of Hamilton. I sent Eliza a champagne bottle symbol. Why is that a thing I can do? When I looked back up at the computer. Hamilton had turned his paper and ruler into a sign that said “Wanker”. Henry appeared to be ignoring it. 

Henry shook his head. “But still, John should have known—”

“That you stick your nose in any business of his—especially non-heteroromantic business—and don’t know how to let him live the way he wants? I think he knows that very well by now.” Hamilton’s phone went off again and he waved his sign dramatically. “Anyway. Since we’re both here to greet John, have you had any proper discussions with your son-in-law? You know, besides that one we had the day all the news came out?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Henry had a point on that one, but I didn’t appreciate his tone. Also, no, we hadn’t. I embroidered with more force than usual.

“I’m just making conversation,” Hamilton said. “Burr is my favorite bad D-R.” What? “Am I not allowed to look after the wellbeing of my preferred opposition so I don’t have to debate the not preferred opposition?” Eliza sent me an eye-roll and I finished the stem of the pansy.

“What makes someone your preferred opposition?” Henry demanded, “Being another fucking queer?” The person filming made an ‘oooooh’ noise. 

“No, actually,” Hamilton said, “My criteria is intelligent, coherent and secretly on my side, but for some reason deciding that the opposing side is more enjoyable.” That was going to be inconvenient. I made the window with Hamilton in it smaller and pulled up the Democratic-Republican party platform.

“Hi Burr, join our side,” Hamilton said to the camera, “We have cookies and me.” The camera person chuckled. I rolled my eyes. Did Hamilton seriously think he was a benefit?

“Are you implying I’m a retard?” My attention — and the camera — snapped back to Henry Laurens as if magnetized. What the hell.

“I don’t remember saying anything of the sort.” Even Hamilton’s habitual smugness was slightly ruffled by the slur.

“Good,” Henry said, “At least you’ve got _some_ sense in that oversized head of yours.”

“My head is not oversized. It is perfectly sized to hold my magnificent brain and my other head—” Hamilton, _no._ “Is something I’m not allowed to talk about because Eliza said ‘No.’” I texted Eliza a hurried thank you.

“Aww…is the great Hamilton hen-pecked by his wife?” Henry asked.

“No, I just happen to respect my wife’s opinion and concede that she is often right.” Hamilton paused dramatically, “Too often for my taste, but that’s marriage, I suppose. Do you remember the state? Happy, deeply in love, picnics on the beach, no small children underfoot…” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Henry Laurens said. He looked appalled. “My marriage was proper.”

“God, I pity your late wife,” Hamilton said. I shook my head and went back to my embroidery. “Did you also have separate bedrooms? Never touch in front of the children? Holes in the special bedsheets?” Hamilton got another text. Probably Eliza telling him to keep the sex jokes less extreme.

“I fail to see how any of this has to do with my son and his imminent arrival,” Henry said. 

“Are we not supposed to make pleasantries as we eagerly await the man of the hour? We still have some time.” I checked my phone. No updates from my interns or John. Which didn’t mean much. They were probably still running around trying to get the _right_ incredibly battered duffle bag out of the baggage claim.

“I would not consider this pleasant,” Henry said. Fair enough. I started the pansy’s petals.

“Then by all means, instruct me, great master,” Hamilton said, “On how to be pleasant with one’s best friend’s estranged father. What must I say? Do? How must I act to catch a glimpse of that rare smile behind the mask of bigotry and contempt?” He swept an elaborate bow, then stood in mockingly polite attentiveness, clutching the sign to his chest.

“You could leave me alone, for one,” Henry snapped. “I don’t need you here to wait for my son.”

“Ah, but alas, I am his very good friend, and what kind of friend would I be if I left before he arrived?” Hamilton shook his head sadly. “That is the epitome of rude, is it not?”

“Quite frankly, I don’t care what you do,” Henry said. “I’m here to talk to my son about his marriage to that … senator.” He managed very impressively to make our shared title an insult. Significant pause senator, indeed.

“Ooh, Burr’s gotten an upgrade in descriptors from Henry.” Hamilton bounced happily. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear about it. I do hope they work out. They are the cutest couple, aren’t they?” He cocked his head at Henry, inviting agreement.

“My son was supposed to get married to a proper woman and have children.” Henry turned away from Hamilton, making a show of trying to end the conversation.

“Your son managed the second half of that,” Hamilton said, shaking off an intern to walk around in front of Henry again, “And Burr is a very proper _man_ — Well … he didn’t wipe his feet on the mat the last time he came over, but hey, no one’s perfect.” Did _so._

“I don’t see how that is relevant,” Henry said. A fair point. I tied off the thread I’d been working with and hunted through my box to find the proper yellow for the stamen.

“It’s perfectly relevant,” Hamilton said. “If you want to analyze someone’s character, you have to look at all facets of it. For example, I am a loudmouthed hothead trying to restructure the economy and enjoying destroying Jefferson’s illusions.” I wrinkled my nose at the imperfection of that parallelism. 

“I also give away a significant portion of my wealth to charity every year and am the father of two children with a third on the way. I attempt to regularly go to Church, but regrettably I have responsibilities to ensure President Washington isn’t lead astray by all my Virginian opponents who have the draw card of ‘we were friends as children.’” Okay, Hamilton. _There_ was the yellow! 

“If you analyze this I think you’ll find I’m a good-natured but overbearing fuckwit who was appointed Secretary of the Treasury because of the incredible skills in economics that others don’t seem to have and not my stellar and for some reason polarizing personality.” That was remarkably self-knowing of him, if rather smug. 

His phone went off again. “At least one person agrees with me,” he said. I snorted and put my needle down to text Eliza approvingly.

“…What?” Henry Laurens had been somewhat steamrolled by Hamilton’s enthusiasm. 

“Burr, on the other hand is a quiet man who is very good at paperwork,” Hamilton continued implacably, “Somehow knows everything that’s going on—” Not nearly as much as I’d like people to think. “—and is the worst Democratic-Republican I have ever met.” 

“Hamilton!” I snapped at the screen. Naturally, he didn’t notice.

“He has started several impressive charities and is currently pregnant with twins by your son,” Hamilton said. I wouldn’t exactly call my charities _impressive_. But that was sweet of Hamilton to say. “He regularly attends church and was voted senator by the New Yorkers with Angelica because of his stellar hair—” What? I ran my hand over my head, but yes, it was still shaved. “—flamboyant fashion sense—” I had to grant that I was currently wearing turtle-patterned pajama pants, but I wouldn’t ever wear them in _public_ , and besides, they were John’s. “—and excellent debate skills.”

“One outta three ain’t bad,” I muttered.

“Analyze this,” Hamilton said, “And you’ll get a decent but flawed man—” 

I texted Hamilton “Flawed yourself.”

“—who’s managing to somehow single-handedly keep the government running,” he was saying, “While also filing his own taxes and treating his interns exceedingly well.” His phone went off as he received my text. “See? He agrees with me.”

“He’s just another one of Madison’s henchmen,” Henry said. “Why on earth should I care?” Precisely _because_ I’m one of Madison’s henchmen, in fact. I shook my head sadly and busied myself embroidering the pansy’s genitals.

“One, he’s a human being,” Hamilton said sternly. Oh, no, one of his interminable lists. “Two, he’s a senator. Three, he married your son. Four, he’s pregnant with your grandchildren. Five, he’s a decent human being. Six, he’s fun to argue with. Seven, he’s a terrible D-R. Eight—”

“Why do you keep saying that like it’s a good thing?” Henry cut him off. Thankfully. 

“Well, he’s not the massive bigot type of terrible D-R ideology that some of you guys seem to subscribe to,” Hamilton said. “He’s an I-don’t-agree-with-you-guys-but-the-government-needs-to-function-also-Hamilton-that’s-not-how-government-works type of D-R. Personally, I’d support him running for president.”

“What the fuck, Hamilton,” I said. “Are you trying to make life hard for me?”

“Why? You’re a federalist,” Henry said, which was a perfectly reasonable response to Hamilton supporting my presidency. “Never mind. I don’t need another list or fucking analysis of character. I need my son to get here so I can discuss family matters with him.”

“Do these matters include attempting to convince him to divorce Burr?” Hamilton asked. “Because that’s not going to work. Also, it might not be a good idea.”

“Why not?” Henry sounded genuinely puzzled by that one.

“Because John is significantly wealthier than Burr, and there was no pre-nup so John would probably end up paying Burr a decent portion of your family’s wealth.” Not to mention that it all went to me and not Henry if John died. 

“Also they’ll never divorce,” Hamilton continued, “Because they’re deeply in manly love and have a bad habit of making eyes at each other at parties before excusing themselves early. Sir,” he adopted a very serious tone, “They won’t divorce for anything less than stopping me from doing something exceedingly stupid. How that would work I have no idea—” Me neither. “—but let’s hope it never gets there. Also, I have Eliza, so that should never be necessary.” His phone went off again. So did mine.

“What the FUCK?” I heard Henry say as I checked my phone. It was a text from John that said “Safely out. Your interns are intimidating.” I texted back a smiley face and a heart.

“Surely you’re aware of how I work, Henry?” Hamilton said. “I know an incredible divorce lawyer I’d recommend to Burr to make sure he gets his fair share—”

“IF YOU THINK THAT GIRLY BOY IS GETTING ANY OF MY JOHN’S MONEY YOU’VE GOT ANOTHER THING COMING, HAMILTON.” Henry was going to regret yelling that in a public airport. I smiled. 

“I suspect the only that’s coming is a high-five from Burr,” Hamilton said. “Neither of us has ever much liked you, and taking some of your money in the divorce would be incredibly satisfying.” 

“Fuck divorce,” I said.

“HAMILTON!” Henry was turning a rather concerning red.

“Is that what you want, sir?” Hamilton asked, “To make your son miserable and penniless?” I would not put that past him, actually. 

“You STAY OUT OF THIS!” Henry yelled.

“Why on earth would I do that? John’s the happiest I’ve seen him in years.” Hamilton beamed. “I wonder how much the children will take after Burr? They’ll be adorable, don’t you think? All small and brown and bald. Do you think that Burr will shave their heads, too?” No. Razors too sharp, babies too squirmy. “Or will John veto that plan?”

“If he doesn’t, I will,” Henry said through gritted teeth. He wasn’t going to have that sort of power over my children.

“You know, that’s really not how grand-children work,” Hamilton said. “Burr will probably bring one of them with him to Senate, most days, like Angelica. They’ll be the best of friends. The babies, that is. Think about them running around giggling while you give speeches. No-one will be angry in the Senate anymore.” I tied off the yellow thread and worked on rediscovering the scissors.

“I’ll be plenty angry,” Henry said. He seemed to have recovered himself somewhat.

“About what?” Hamilton spread his hands invitingly, a gesture made rather odd by the sign in his hand. “Your son-in-law’s touching devotion to your grandchildren? His insistence on keeping them in contact with their history and culture? His resp—” Henry cut him off.

“NO GRANDCHILD OF MINE IS BEING RAISED BY THAT N***R!” I jerked back on the sofa so hard I dropped the needle. The word had been mostly bleeped out, but it was unmistakable. “IF YOU THINK FOR ONE MINUTE—HEY! YOU GET BACK HERE I’M NOT DONE—” Hamilton had turned him back on Henry and was walking away with incredible calm. 

“But I’m done with you, sir,” Hamilton said without turning around. I set my embroidery carefully next to the computer and turned off the stream.

“Yeah,” I said shakily, “That man’s not touching my children.”


	9. NOW they're interested?

There were paparazzi outside Burr’s building. They didn’t seem to have spotted me. I could try to be unobtrusive and sneak around to the back. I could be my father’s son and spin them a pretty web of family-friendly illusions.

“ _Casse toi_ ,” I said in my best imitation of Lafayette. I straightened my shoulders, stared forward, and walked as if I’d been sent to kill Captain America. 

They didn’t get too close. I grinned and ignored their questions. _Let_ them stare.

“Honey, I’m home,” I called as I walked into Burr’s apartment. He popped out of the kitchen, smiling. He was waddling a little, definitely visibly pregnant. No doubt that was how the press found out.

"Welcome home," he said. I dropped my bag to kiss him properly. Something seemed to be bothering him, but I figured I'd ask him over dinner. He tucked my hair back behind my ear. “I put some biscuits in,” he said, “And I’m warming up the soup.”

“Thank you, love,” I said. I stood back from him a few steps and looked him over. “Are you baking in my pajama pants?”

“Yeah,” Burr said. “I am wearing an apron, though.”

“Oh, no worries,” I said, “That fabric’s atrocious. I only wear them because Mulligan made them.” Burr chuckled and pulled my head down to kiss me again.

“Dinner in ten,” he said and went back to the kitchen. I put my bag in the bedroom and sorted through the mail on the table. It felt really good to be standing and not traveling. 

Bill, bill. I put those aside for Burr. Various requests for money. I tore most of those up, but kept the one from Representative Watkins’ reelection campaign. Burr might get a kick out of it. Or actually donate, I didn’t keep track of the representatives from New York. 

“Barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen,” I called in Burr's general direction, “And more a man than my father ever dreamed of being.” A paycheck? What? My salary and Burr’s both went straight into a bank account. 

“Your father is not the best example of a man I’ve ever met,” Burr said from the kitchen. 

“True,” I said, opening the envelope. “Aaron.” I looked sternly toward the kitchen. “Why are you getting hazard pay?” 

“What?” Burr came out of the kitchen with a cookie tray of biscuits. “I have no … Oooooh.” 

“Wanna share with the class?” I raised my eyebrows at him in my very best stern-librarian face.

“I edited a paper for Hamilton,” Burr said, and vanished back into the kitchen. “Working with Hamilton gets interns a hazard bonus. Eliza must have extended it to me for a bit.”

“That would explain why it arrived this way,” I said. “Does he still write about fifty times more than necessary?”

“He talked about North Korea in a paper about farm subsidies,” Burr said. 

“How did — never mind, I don’t want to know.” I shook my head and put the check on the pile with the bills and took them over to Burr’s desk. 

“Somehow it worked,”Burr said, “Dinner. And let’s not talk about Hamilton.” 

“Good plan," I said, coming out of the bedroom. Burr had lit a couple candles. Were we celebrating something? It wasn't either of our birthdays, our anniversary was a months away. It wasn’t Advent, either. Pentecost, still.

“Is everything all right?” I asked once we were seated. 

“Yes,” Burr said, _far_ too quietly. “Everything’s fine.”

“Aaron,” I pushed. Usually he wasn’t this blatant when he was being evasive.

He sighed. “Your father’s ruined his career.” I reached out and took his hand, permitting the change in subject.

“How’d he manage that?” Burr licked his lips and glanced down, processing. His thoughts were interrupted by a very loud knock. I frowned. The paparazzi shouldn’t be able to get up here. Burr got up to answer the door, shaking his head.

“Surprise!” Hamilton yelled when Burr opened the door, “I brought sparkling cider, small children, and my wonderful wife!” He had brought small children — two exploded into the apartment. 

“Phillip! Franny!” Eliza called, “Come back and take your shoes off.” The larger child ran back to her, but the smaller sat down and began pulling at their own laces. I got up to help them. We didn’t have enough food for all these.

I bent down. “Hello, small friend, do you need help?”

“Shoes,” the child said, pointing helpfully. I untied them.

“I brought Chinese!” Hamilton said. 

“Oh, good,” I said, and stood up with the child’s shoes in hand.

“I’ll take those,” Eliza said. “This is Franny.” The other child— Phillip— ran up to me while I was saying hello to Franny. 

“Burr!” He held his hands up to me, so I scooped him up. 

“I’m John,” I told him, and turned around to look at Burr. “That’s Burr.” Burr looked up from his efforts to rearrange the table and waved. 

“But, hair,” Phillip said, pulling on mine.

Burr groaned. “Hamilton, really? I sincerely hope they didn’t see the whole thing.”

“Two outta three ain’t bad,” Hamilton said, looking pointedly at Burr’s pants. Well, my pajama pants, which Burr was wearing. 

“These are John’s,” Burr said quickly, “And I’d never wear them in public. One out of three. Which is only 33.33 percent.” Hamilton grinned at him.

“I’m sorry, Burr,” he said, sobering, “I didn’t think he’d go that far.”

“Okay,” I said, “What happened?”

“Headphones,” Eliza said, “Different room. I brought baby clothes.” She handed Burr a large basket. “Some of them are from Mulligan.” I chuckled. That explained the onesies in the terrible turtle fabric. As for the rest — did Mulligan really have no better joke for Burr and clothing than writing ‘Burr’ in mulberry? 

I put Phillip down — he protested —and Burr handed me his laptop and the basket while Hamilton unpacked the Chinese food. I took them both into the room that was allegedly my bedroom. It wasn’t going to be a hardship to make it into a nursery — I didn’t sleep in it anymore. Except for that one time I told Burr the knot he’d just drawn looked like an attempt to diagram the speech patterns of the Senate, he started doing an actual diagram, and kicked me out because it had interesting satellites. The knot theoretical kind. I wasn’t entirely joking about his pillow talk. 

Years better than Hamilton, though. 

I plugged the headphones in. Wait. I put my head round the door into the living room. Burr was holding Franny now.

“What am I supposed to be watching?”


	10. Wait. Come back. Hamilton……….

“Never mind, John,” Eliza said when John poked his head around the door. “Beyoncé’s new video can wait, however obsessed Hamilton’s become.” John raised a dubious eyebrow at her. “You’re having children, you need to practice parenting.” I chuckled. 

“Having younger siblings isn’t close enough?”

“Oh, they’re long out of diapers,” John said, and came back into the living room. “And anyway, you didn’t have any.” 

“No, I didn’t,” I said, and looked at Franny. “Do you know you’re going to have a little baby sibling soon?” Franny looked at me soberly and sucked her thumb. 

“I don’t know about y’all,” John said, “But we need to eat.” 

“Do we need a high-chair?” I asked Eliza. “I mean, right now. For Franny.”

“We’ll manage,” Eliza said. “Franny can sit on someone’s lap. It’s time for dinner, Franny,” she added in that talking-to-small-children voice. “Does Franny want to eat her chicken?”

“Mess,” Franny said decisively. 

“Well, probably,” I said. “Let’s go to the kitchen where it will be easier to clean up.”

“I’ll get a stack of books so Phillip can sit in a big-kid chair like the rest of us,” John said. 

“I’m a big kid!” Phillip marched into the kitchen. “I want rice!”

“Of course you can have rice, dear,” Eliza said with infinite patience. No wonder she was able to remained married to Hamilton. 

“Here you go,” John said, setting down two of his old medical textbooks and one of my old calculus texts on the chair with a loud  _ thunk _ before seating himself next to Phillip.

“Punzle!” Franny cried, pointing at the stack.

“It is a bit like Rapunzel, isn’t it?” Hamilton asked, entertained. 

I sighed. “So how are you four doing?” I asked as Franny waved her fork around and Eliza dodged.

“We’re doing well,” Eliza said, catching Franny’s arm and pinning it to her side. 

“Did anyone else show up at your office?” Hamilton asked.

“Jefferson and the president,” I said, shrugging. “Jefferson to be obnoxious and congratulate me on my political move, the president to threaten me with dismemberment.”

Hamilton shrugged. “She does that sometimes. Only if you deserve it though.”

“Who showed up at your office? About what?” John asked.

“Your father showed up and demanded to know why he wasn’t told about our marriage until the tabloid explosion. Hamilton showed up to question our timing.” I kept my eyes on my food. It didn’t seem so appetizing anymore.

“That can’t have been fun,” John said, throwing his left arm around me and pulling me over so he could kiss my forehead. 

I shrugged. Hamilton chuckled. “I got to yell at your father for being terrible.”

“He did make a great pun though,” I said. “So he’s got that going for him.”

“Oh, do share,” John said, looking curious.

“Apparently he wants nothing to do with my congress outside of Congress,” Hamilton said cheerfully. 

“Congress outside of...” John trailed off. ”Alexander Hamilton! You did  _ not  _ tell my father about your sex life!”

“I implied,” Hamilton said. “Besides, he deserved it.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hamilton,” John said, in his about-to-fight voice. I leaned into him. “Telling people about your sex life when they didn’t ask can very easily become sexual harassment!”

“You should’ve seen his face though,” Hamilton said, undaunted.

“Was it a face of deep discomfort?” John said. I leaned harder. 

Hamilton shrugged. “He’ll never enter my office again. That’s worth it in my book.”

“Well then, we know it’s not true,” John said, turning back to his meal. I sat up slightly to raise an eyebrow at him.

Hamilton stared blankly. After a second, Phillip dramatically put his hand on his heart. “How dare you insinuate-” Phillip said in his little-boy voice.

John looked up at Phillip and chuckled. “Your mother is far too sensible for that type of behavior,” he said. “You are the living proof, dear, that they do have congress outside of congress, but Eliza wouldn’t let it happen in the  _ office. _ ”

“Moving on,” Eliza said, looking up in a rare moment of Franny being still. “Are you two planning on having a baby shower?”

I frowned. “Who on earth could we invite without it ending in a huge fight?”

“Well,” Eliza said, shrugging. “Usually the pregnant partner invites over 10 or so of their closest friends for a few hours of cheesy games and snacks, while the non-pregnant partner disappears.”

“Burr doesn’t have friends,” Hamilton said. “He has political allies and me. And a husband.”

“I do so have friends,” I said.

“And I now understand why I would skip out on this,” John said, wrinkling his upper lip and shivering dramatically. I nudged him none-too-gently. 

“I’m your friend,” Phillip said, smiling at me with a mouthful of lo mein. 

“Yes, but Burr’s other friends do  _ math _ ,” John said, making a face. 

“Restruture the ecomonay?” Phillip asked.

“No, not that type of math,” John said. “More knots. Like your shoes, but harder. And in unnecessarily complicated dimensions.”

Phillip nodded. “I like velcro,” he declared before going back to eating. 

“Shoes!” Franny cried, leaning generally towards the door. 

“Not now,” Eliza said, grabbing Franny’s waist to keep her from falling off her lap. “This is parenting, Burr.”

“Trying to keep three people with no sense of social appropriateness from doing anything too absurd?” I raised my eyebrows at her and ate a bite of soup. 

“At least  _ we’ll _ only have two,” John said. “But they’ll both be in diapers at the same time.”

“He was counting my husband in that,” Eliza grumbled, glaring at Hamilton, who was checking his phone.

“I’m not in diapers,” Hamilton said, looking up, “Although it seems some of my fellow politicians should be.”

“No work at dinner,” John said reflexively. 

“That is one of the very few things I agree with your father about,” I said. “Some of us,” I glared half-heartedly at Hamilton, “Need down time.”

“What else do you agree with him on? His dress sense? The elderly balding look?” John asked. 

I considered this with pretend seriousness. “The appropriate way to eat lobster.” 

“Oh no, not you too,” John groaned. “Those shell-cracker things are for squares. And people who don’t regularly eat lobster.”

“I  _ don’t  _ regularly eat lobster,” I said.

“And people with limited hand motion or strength,” John went on. “But I  _ happen  _ to know that your hands are perfectly healthy as long as you make an effort not to get carpal tunnel. Which eating lobster  _ properly  _ would help with.”

“What’s lobster?” Phillip asked.

“We had it when that English guy came over,” Hamilton told him. “Remember him? He made more of a mess than Franny.”

“Mess,” said Franny.

“Is that your word, Franny?” I leaned toward her. “Does Franny make messes?”

“Mess,” Franny said again, and smeared sauce on her face as she tried to put chicken in her upper lip.

I slowly rose from the table and began to clear the plates. Damn this center of gravity change. It was a little unnerving. John put a hand gently against the small of my back.

“Let me do that,  _ querido, _ ” he said, “You baked.”

“Here,” Eliza said, getting up and helping herself.

“You’re more pregnant than I am!” I exclaimed. 

“I live with Hamilton. I get breaks when he’s asleep.”

“Hamiltons never sleep!” Cried Phillip. “We stay up and write! Jefferson is wrong!”

“Very seldom sleep,” I said, “Your father fell asleep in one of my TA sessions once, so I know it does happen.”

“I remember that,” John said. “Hamilton was weirdly well rested that day and sure he hadn’t missed anything important.”

“It was a  _ TA session, _ ” I said, “I was answering questions about what people had already learned. Well, been taught.”

“And  _ I _ was bored,” Hamilton said. “I had to go to six of those things to pass, and I had no questions to ask, because that professor was wrong.”

I sighed. “We got a lot more done in the sessions you didn’t come to.”

“See? Worthless,” Hamilton said, handing his plate to John.

“I’m pretty sure you learned things,” John said, “You were a lot better educated about ableism after that class.”

“Because I needed to argue with the professor, the ablist prick!”

“About  _ ableism? _ ” I said. “The class was about Classical Philosophy.”

“And the professor was so in love with Aristotle, I swear he was going to go back in time and be his friend, because EVERYONE WAS OBVIOUSLY STRAIGHT, so I spent the class tearing apart Aristotle’s theories by showing how ableist and misogynistic he was and why we shouldn’t also aim to be his  _ friend. _ ”

“What does that have to do with being straight?” I stared at Hamilton blankly.

“He wanted to be Aristotle’s friend. Because Aristotle was definitely straight.”

I gave him my best impression of ‘?????’.

“No one was gay in antiquity. Completely new concept invented by the youth in defiance of the Man,” Hamilton said, grumpily. 

“And thus Professor Johnson wanted to be friends with Aristotle.” I rubbed at my face. “Hamilton, you are missing the middle step here.”

“Which one? There are several. I’ll write you up the steps and send it to you tomorrow.”

“Please DON’T,” John said.

“Can I edit?” Phillip asked.

“Not this time. I’m sure mommy will let you help her, though.”

“Your son is already editing your papers?” I asked. Wasn’t that a little above a 3 year old’s reading ability? Did a 3 year old have a reading ability?  _ I  _ had, but I was not a good example.

“I editeded daddy’s paper for tomorrow,” Phillip said, smugly. “Just like mommy.”

“And how does mommy do it?” John asked.

“A paper in the light blue binder, a paper in the red binder, a paper in the black binder, large ‘X’ here, a paper in the loud thing not for fingers, give daddy the five left over. Add a period at the end.”

“And what did the paper say?” I asked. John was doubled over with laughter.

“Down with Capitalism,” Phillip answered very decisively. “Listen to us, your Excellency. I’m not your son.”

“That,” John hiccuped, “Is what all Hamilton’s papers say.”

“Surprisingly, it still made sense,” Eliza said, chuckling with us. “He handed Hamilton a paper on trade deals with Germany.”

“Good job,” John said. “Why did Hamilton need a paper on trade deals with Germany? Did something go south I don’t know about?”

“No,” Eliza sighed. “We have a talk, rather,  _ Hamilton _ has a heavily edited talk on our renewable energy policy tomorrow.”

“ _ Not  _ more wind subsidies,” I said, “Don’t get me started. I have the math on this one.”

“How on earth did you get trade deals with Germany out of that?” John asked, incredulous. Right. He’d never fully read a Hamilton paper.

“He’s always like that,” I said, “They are about five hundred pages long without editing.”

“Well, there’s this small town there that runs completely off the grid,” Hamilton said. “I was suggesting we follow their example and with our ongoing good relations we could probably get them to--”

“ _ Hence _ trade deals,” I interrupted. “And now to bed, some of us are not Hamiltons.” 

“Okay, okay,” Hamilton said. He permitted his family to be shooed out the door, and I collapsed against it when it closed.

I heard a faint “weaklings” from Phillip. Dear god. How did Eliza do it?

“Eliza’s right,” I said to John, “You should watch it. Google ‘Hamilton/Laurens Airport showdown or something.” 

John sighed. “That does not sound like a promising start.”


	11. John Is NOT Looking Forward to This Conversation

“Ooooooh, boy,” I sighed, and clicked ‘Call’. “I am the eldest, oughtn’t they be the ones being scared of me?”

Skype stopped with the ringing thing and showed me icons. Harry, predictably, connected first. College wifi.

“JOHN!” I hurriedly turned down the volume. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” I said in Spanish. 

“Jo _ ohn _ ,” Harry said. And, in English, “Do we  _ have  _ to?” I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you getting practice with a native speaker?” I stayed in Spanish. “It took me a lot of work to get fluency back after Mom died. Better not to lose it in the first place.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Harry said, code switching. “You’re still absurd.”

“Very,” Patsy said, also in Spanish, “Or perhaps stupid is the word. What did you think you were doing?”

“I didn’t want Dad to think you knew and get mad,” I said. 

“That’s what Burr said you said about not telling me,” Mary said. 

“That’s stupid, John,” Patsy said. “Dad will think whatever the hell he wants, aren’t you always telling us that?”

“Yeah,” I said, “Yeah, I know.”

“Also, really,” Mary said, “‘Hamilton’s friend who’s good at paperwork’ is no way to refer to your husband.”

“Well, he  _ is, _ ” I said. “Although he claims he isn’t Hamilton’s friend. I’d like to know what he thinks being Alexander’s friend is  _ like.” _

That got me the laugh I’d been fishing for, but then Harry and Patsy started talking at once and Skype got confused.

“You didn’t even tell us you were  _ dating  _ him,” Harry said when Skype had settled down.

“I didn’t expect it to last,” I said, which I hadn’t. “To be honest, I’m not really sure when we started. I mean, we’d been getting together to complain about Hamilton for a while. Burr is actually really relaxing company.”

“And sexy,” Patsy said. 

“Oy,  _ mine _ ,” I said, and switched to English for a moment. “And I’m demisexual, so less of a factor.” I switched back. “Does anyone know how to say that in Spanish yet? I’m still behind.”

“I’ll look into it,” Harry said. “But you kept dating him, and then you married him. And you  _ never  _ told us. At all.”

“C’mon, John, this isn’t fair,” Patsy said. “You know about KT.”

“Well, you  _ told  _ me,” I said, “Look, I just—” I rubbed my face. Hard. “Ugh. It’s just kind of hard to talk about.”

“You married the man,” Mary said, “And that’s hard to talk about. John, did you get  _ drunk?” _

“No!” I shook my head hard, getting hair in my eyes. “Agh. Sober nearly seven years now. We were both sober. Just lonely and well—I was jet lagged as fuck.”

“And instead of just settling down to snuggle, you got married.” Mary raised an eyebrow at me sternly. “Joooooooooohn.”

“Siiiiiiiiiblings,” I said. “Yeah, we got married. That happened…”

“Did you plan it?” I blinked at Patsy.

“What?”

“Did you plan the whole getting-married-in-Vegas thing?”

“No,” I said, “No, we didn’t plan it. It’s kind of embarrassing. Burr takes pride in having a plan for everything, and he just totally—” I waved incoherently.

“You still call your husband by his last name,” Harry said. “John, that’s weird.”

“I’ve called him by his last name since we met!” I said. “He hadn’t decided what his real first name was.”

“Okay,” Mary said in English, “I mean, sounds fake. But okay.”

”فعلا؟” I said, entirely out of patience. “Spanish, please.”

“You say in Arabic,” Patsy said dryly, albeit in Spanish. Had I? “But Mary’s right. This does sound fake.” 

“I really am married to Burr,” I said, matching Patsy’s tone. “And he really is pregnant. I’ve seen the ultrasounds.”

“Okay,” Patsy said. “But why?”

“That’s what happens when you put two sober guys in a room full of drunks? And at least one of the drunks is Hamilton?” I asked, slightly unsure.

“You’d think that’s the opposite of what would happen,” Mary said dryly. “When I got drunk all I did was try to convince Burr to take over Texas and make his own LGBT friendly country.”

“When the fuck was that?” Harry demanded. “And why wasn’t I invited?”

“You were in college,” Mary said tiredly. “And Saeed and I had a bet.”

“Isn’t he not allowed to drink because of his religion?” I asked.

“Neither of us had ever had alcohol before. We wanted to see who would get drunk first. I won. He made out with Anna, the gayest gay who ever gayed.”

“And then you called Burr?” Patsy asked. “What on earth was going through your mind?”

“About half a bottle more of wine,” Mary said. “I had a hell of a hangover, but I won five bucks.” She shrugged. “Anyway this isn’t about my escapades with Li’s parents’ alcohol cabinet.”

“Fine,” Harry. “Next time bring me,” he muttered.

“Quit avoiding the house like the plague and I will,” Mary said.

“Dad is the plague,” I muttered. “Come visit us. No alcohol, but we have Hamilton, who might be just as bad.”

“Ooh, it’s ‘us’ now,” Mary said, making kissing motions at the screen.

“Well, yes, we do kinda live together and share most things.”

“Including hair and clothing?” Harry asked. “Since when does Burr have hair? Or wear something non-monochromatic?”

“That was entirely Hamilton being Hamilton, and not at all accurate,” I said. “Burr has about half an inch of hair if he forgets to cut it for a while, and his closet is entirely black, dark blue, white, and mulberry.” I sighed. “He does steal my pants, though. They are too long for him and puddle around his feet. It’s adorable.”

“Aww,” Mary said, propping her chin on her hands, “John’s got a  _ crush.”  _

“We’re married,” I said. “We’re having twins. This is not actually that embarrassing.”

“John and Aaron sitting in a tree,” Harry said, in English. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said, following him into English, and switched stubbornly back to Spanish, “Do you have your schedule for the next semester?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “I will not be diverted!” He made a gesture which I couldn’t see all of through Skype. Our sisters laughed. “Why did you marry Burr?” I sighed dramatically and slumped into my chair.

“No, seriously,” Mary said. “You’ve never said anything like ‘We were in love’ or anything.”

“He wouldn’t say it that way,” Patsy pointed out.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I said. “Won’t.” I leant back and tried to come up with an explanation that they’d accept. “It seemed like a good idea at the time?” I asked, flailing slightly. “And I haven’t regretted my decision thus far….”

“That’s the logic behind why I married my ex-husband,” Patsy said. “And we all know how  _ that _ turned out.”

“Burr isn’t like that at all!” I cried. I resented that comparison. “He’s nicer. And quieter. And infinitely more respectful of me.”

“Well, good,” Mary said, “Not that that’s hard. And Dad doesn’t like him, so that’s a plus.”

“It’s not hard to win Dad’s disapproval,” I pointed out. “Especially not if you happen to have been born anything but very straight and very white…”

“Don’t forget Christian, able-bodied and less educated than him,” Mary added. 

“You can’t be  _ born  _ educated,” Harry said. 

“But if you don’t have an education, all the better for him to teach you the ways of the obnoxious white man,” Mary said. “I like to invite Saeed over just to piss him off. It’s fun. We pray to Allah as loud as possible at least 50 times.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” Patsy said, “John. Why did you marry Burr?”

“I already told you. Several times,” I said.

“Hand waving doesn’t count,” Mary said. 

“Is it really any of your business?” I -- well. I prevaricated. 

“We’re your siblings. We’re supposed to get in your business and demand to know everything about your spouse,” Mary said. “Fine. If you won’t answer that question, can I have his social? He has mine. It’s only fair.”

“I don’t know his social security number,” I said. “I assume you needed to give him yours for paperwork or something?”

“I don’t think he knows mine,” Harry said, making a concerned face, “He always just tells me what to put where and then I do it.”

“Mary, you can’t go asking people for their social,” Patsy added. “It’s incredibly rude. Especially when said person is in government.”

Mary shrugged unrepentantly. “Does he  _ love  _ you, John? Is he besotted? Does he tell you stars come up in your eyes every morning?”

“He bakes me biscuits and steals my pajama pants. He also kicks me out of bed to do math,” I shrugged. “And he frets when I go out to handle pre-epidemic situations, say that five times fast in Spanish,” I challenged. “And makes me promise to remember to eat and sleep.”

“Wait...you two are sleeping together? Like  _ sleeping _ sleeping together?” Mary nodded in agreement with Harry’s incredulous question.

Patsy groaned. “What did you think they were doing? One of them is pregnant!”

“We could have gotten _ in vitro _ fertilization,” I said, then translated it into English at their puzzled looks. “We just didn’t.”

“Wait. So were you two trying to have kids? Or were they the accident of a passionate night?” Mary asked. 

“You found the random stash of romance novels in our house, didn’t you?” Patsy asked, putting her face in her hands. 

“My question still stands,” Mary said, “And they’re good practice.”

“I think Mom read romance novels because she didn’t get any actual romance from Dad,”  Harry said.

“Practice for what? 90% of them are regency. Unless you plan to travel back to the 1800s and find an attractive duke, they’re useless,” Patsy said. 

“I’ve been reading the ones in Spanish,” Mary said, “Duh.” Maybe they’d continue this line of conversation and forget all about me.

“Regardless,” Harry said, eyebrow raised. “We can question Mary’s taste in literature later. Now. John.” Too much to hope for. I sighed.

“We were running out of time,” I said. 

The lock on the front door clicked and I looked at the door reflexively. Burr wandered in, looking exhausted. “Press conference tomorrow,” he called to me, before dropping his bag with a heavy thunk and joining me on the horrible sofa. “Hi guys. You’re still talking?”

“Use Spanish,” Mary told him. 

“Hola,” Burr said in the most horrendous accent I’d ever heard. It sounded like an American and a Chinese person trying to read Spanish by translating through German. 

“That was impressively bad,” I told him in Spanish.

“Nergh,” he said, in no language in particular, and stuck his head in the my shoulder. I kissed his forehead. 

“The man of the hour,” I said, indicating him to my siblings. Oh no. I did not like that look on Mary’s face. Or Patsy’s. Or Harry’s, for that matter. 

“Oy, Burr!” Mary leaned forward into the pickup. “Why’d you and John get married?”

“We picked up the deliriously happy vibes from Hamilton, made out in the parking lot and decided not to have sex before marriage,” Burr replied in reasonably decent, albeit excessively formal and Castilian, Spanish. 

Patsy blinked. “That was not the story I was expecting,” she said.

“I just spent a day arguing with Hamilton. What makes you think anything I say is going to be coherent or correct?” Burr mumbled.

“So exhaustion is not your drunk,” Mary said. “Darn.”

“Mary!” Harry said. “No!”

“If exhaustion was my drunk I would’ve been forced to switch sides years ago,” Burr said. 

“Your Spanish is actually fairly good,” Patsy said, looking impressed. Burr nodded and nuzzled my neck. 

“Food,” he muttered.

“The pregnant half demands sustenance,” I declared, spreading my arms wide. “I must please the beast before-”

“I compare you to Hamilton?” Burr asked. 

“A fate worse than death!” I shuddered dramatically. “I’ll talk to you guys later.”

They all nodded and began signing off. Mary stayed, grinning at the two of us until I hung up on her.

“What do you want to eat?” I asked.

“One of those sandwich things they served at that dinner you didn’t go to because you weren’t back yet.”

“Barring that.”

“Fries.”

“That I can do.”


	12. Can we get back to politics?

“Secretary Jefferson, Senator,” Emily said, and wheeled herself back out of my doorway. 

“Mr. Secretary,” I said, and stood up to shake his hand. He smiled at me, one of his practiced professional smiles, white teeth in brown face, and waved me back to my seat.

“The farm subsidies got through,” he said. I nodded and put my computer to sleep. It’s always better to take notes on paper. Leaves less of a paper-trail. Ironically. “Slightly modified, I note.” I shrugged. “The subsidy specifically for the purchase of energy-efficient machinery was a nice touch,” Jefferson said.

“Thank Senator Schuyler for that one,” I said, “She pulled in a collection of the northwest Federalists with it. ‘Green Farming’ is a big thing in Portland and the like.”

“Heh,” Jefferson said. “Are you a secret Federalist?”

“No,” I said, and rolled my eyes. “What would be the point?” 

“Well,” Jefferson said, “You could get us to trust you and pass our plans on.” I looked at him. 

“Our very secret plans. That you absolutely tell me about. That the Federalists cannot figure out on their own.” I’d stopped smiling, so I re-smiled. “Politics is a game of leakages, and the best we can do is control what leaks. I know you’ve fed me lies before. The Federalists didn’t act on them.”

Jefferson shrugged. “Politics is a game. I’d rather limit the players, if possible.”

“Inarguable,” I said, “And what moves are we making today?”

“Are you planning to run for president after Washington’s terms are up?” Jefferson asked. That was a rather worryingly intent expression. I blinked. 

“No,” I said, slightly taken aback. “I’m very happy in the Senate. It’s a good place to work on keeping the government functional.” It’s actually more influential than people tend to think.

“You could win,” Jefferson said. I chuckled. 

“And then I’d be President.” I spread my hands in a ‘what would you’ gesture. “I prefer a more placid position. I’d hate to have to live up to President Washington’s legacy.”

“Heh,” said Jefferson. “The pundits are already talking about how she’s leaving big shoes to fill.” I smiled.

“So who is running on our side, if the field is so sparse that  _ I  _ am considered?” I asked. “Madison? Is Hamilton switching sides and running for us?” Jefferson laughed, a startled burst of noise that brought back some not entirely pleasant memories.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “To be frank, I was thinking of running myself.” I nodded. The silence stretched for a long moment. I kept my expression pleasantly inviting and waited, pencil poised, for him to come to the point. Jefferson shifted uncomfortably. You’d think a man so besotted with Madison would have a better appreciation for the art of silence. 

“Who else do you think will run?” Jefferson had lasted longer than most politicians, and that wasn’t even his real question. Madison _ had  _ taught him something.

“Is Madison not?” I asked. 

“Of course not!” Jefferson looked appalled. “I’d back him if he were!”

“Of course, of course,” I said, and waved a pacifying hand. “Is there anyone else with a name or face who could run right now?” I wondered aloud. “You can bet President Washington’s successor is going to be a big name.”

“There’s Gallatin,” Jefferson said, shrugging, “but all he’s really good for is twitter fights with Hamilton.”

“A more persuasive economist than anyone else we have,” I said, “And he is known, if only for those twitter fights. I wonder if we could run a woman. Governor Lucretia Clay, perhaps? Jackson will run, I’m sure.”

“Jackson always runs,” Jefferson said, “He’s Trump over again. Swings the radical right, loses more every election.”

“Of course,” I said. 

“If we could get him to back us we’d get more votes,” Jefferson said. I raised an eyebrow at him. Had he forgotten  _ he  _ was Black? “Without agreeing to many of his ideas, of course,” he added quickly. 

“I wouldn’t go courting him,” I said. I hadn’t realize how politically suicidal Jefferson could be without Madison scripting him. “After the whole Henry Laurens thing we have to distance ourselves from the racist demographic.” Jefferson looked at me. 

“I’m Black, I can’t be racist,” he said. I paused. I was 90% sure that was not how that worked.

“They’ll blame you for encouraging Henry Laurens,” I said. “You’ll demonize other black Americans and they won’t appreciate it.”

“Is the center so strong, then?”

“ _ I  _ got elected,” I pointed out. “We can’t run on racism anymore. And we can’t afford to be backed by racists either.” Jefferson sighed. 

“They vote so reliably, though,” Jefferson complained. He sounded like a toddler being told he couldn’t have dessert because he hadn’t eaten his vegetables. 

“So we need to get the center out,” I said. “Keep the focus on economic issues and the way Hamilton’s plans would destabilize the system we live in.”

“Who do you think the Federalists would run?” Jefferson asked me.

“Maybe Hamilton? Oh, no, he’s naturalized…” I thought for a minute. “Angelica Schuyler would be a good choice. Possibly Jay? Though people are still mad at him for the treaty with Britain. Abigail Adams is angling for Speaker of the House, I think, but she might run if no one else steps forward.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have too much trouble winning, then, should I?” Jefferson asked smugly. Did he really think these women would be easy to beat?  Neither of them would go down without a fight. I’d pay to see a Hamilton/Jefferson election, though. Especially if I didn’t have to deal with the fall out.

“It’s never a good idea to underestimate the opposition,” I said. “Is there any other business you have with me?”

“Yes,” Jefferson said. Drat. “You mentioned the Laurens business. How are you planning to justify hiding your marriage?”

“We kept hoping Henry Laurens would,” I paused, “Become a little calmer. And it was our private lives, in any case.” Jefferson shook his head sadly. 

“It could have won you the Latino vote, and you didn’t use it.” Oh, would it have? I smiled. 

“Is that all, Secretary Jefferson?” I asked. I really did have work that needed to get done and none of these incredulous people fretting over my marriage were going to help me do it. 

“What, should it be?” Jefferson did stand, though, so I counted that a win.

“I don’t have any further business with you,” I said. Jefferson raised his eyebrows at me, but, lacking any better excuse for bothering me and valuing at least the appearance of courtesy, he left. I waited for a long moment to be sure he was gone before putting my head on my desk.

“Well, fuck,” I muttered. “Gonna have to persuade Governor Clay to run for President.”

 


	13. Does He Even Work???????

“All right,” I muttered, “I can navigate DC’s public transit system, even if they  _ do  _ keep moving the place I’m supposed to be.” I looked over the map in frustration. “For heaven’s sake, I’m not a tourist.” I compared the map I was holding to the signs on the subway. 

I finally made it to the building and the reporters outside began to swarm all shouting questions at once. Ugh. They were worse than mosquitoes in late July. 

“Yes, no, maybe, I’ll think about it, love at first sight,” I said as I tried to make my way through them, not really listening. A reporter grabbed my arm and stuck a recording device in my face. I muttered an expletive of frustration. Two other reporters looked incredibly taken aback. The rest looked confused. A different reporter shoved a mic in my face. I told them to leave me alone. Six of them clearly understood. Five looked like they recognized that I’d spoken and the other three clearly had no comprehension. Oh right. English. That was a thing. What had I been speaking?

“Oi!” a voice yelled over the clamoring of reporters. Everyone turned around. It was the Redoubtable Latasha, one of Burr’s interns, and my personal favorite right now. “Dr. Laurens, you’re late. Your husband’s about to kill you.”

I nodded. Ah, angry pregnant men. Not a demographic I’d recommend working with if you can avoid it.

“I’m coming,” I said, taking advantage of the reporters’ parting like the red sea in the face of Latasha’s personality to make it inside. Latasha followed me. I looked around. “Where am I supposed to be?”

She sighed. “This way,” she said, taking me up an elevator and down an excessively long hallway. As quietly as possible, she opened the door and let the two of us in. That was when I saw the familiar but rarely seen face of the youngest Schuyler. 

“Peggy!” I called, walking over to hug her. “Burr!” I cried, extending my other arm and pulling him into the hug.

“Hi John,” Burr muttered in my armpit. “You’re late. We’re live, by the way. Please let me go.”

I let both of them go and sat down in the chair next to Burr’s and turned to Peggy. “So, how are you doing? I haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I am doing well, and yourself?” Peggy asked, straightening up.

“Ticked and smug,” I said, grinning, “Burr’s trending on twitter.”

“I am?” Burr gave me his best baffled smile. 

“Oh, come now. #IStandWithBurr, your secretary must have told you.”

“I’m sure she did,” Burr said. “But I was busy working. Somebody’s gotta pay the bills in the house.” He rolled his eyes dramatically.

“I do work,” I cried indignantly. “Just yesterday I taught three terrified smalls how to recognize a tubeworm infection.”

“All right,” Peggy said, a little sharply. “John, what’s your political affiliation?”

“Saturdays when I’m debating becoming an anarchist. Any day I get stuck listening to Hamilton ramble, and the occasional election day when my husband is on the ballot.”

“Are you an anarchist?” Peggy asked me, looking surprised.

“No, I am a model,” I turned to Burr. “You are still a Democratic Republican, right?” Burr nodded, looking tired. He needed to get home and nap. “Democratic Republican’s trophy husband. I cook, I clean, I vote for my darling husband and I make him go to bed when he’s been working too hard.” I pet the top of his head. 

“Really, John?” Burr said, “You are an excellent husband, but a very poor trophy.”

“I look fabulous in the spotlight, thank you very much,” I said, insulted. “And I will have you know that I’m quite a catch.”

“Anyway,” Peggy said, “You don’t want to claim any political affiliation?”

“Is husband not a political affiliation?” I asked. “I go to the parties, I drink with the diplomats and talk about how amazing my husband is. I count that as being politically affiliated.”

“You haven’t, historically,” Burr said, “As we were not making our marriage public.”

“Yes,” Peggy said, visibly done with my bullshit.

“Hamilton is very good at dragging people places. I got to drink with the diplomats, and if I threw in a word or two about how awesome Senator Burr is at stuff…” I shrugged. Burr buried his face in his hands. 

“And what about your father?” Peggy asked.

“Oh, wonderful man, if you’re into that kind of thing,” I said. “He’s so well educated on cultural sensitivity and family matters. If he were half the man at home that he was in public, I might never have married my wonderful husband.”

“Why not?” Peggy asked. 

“Oh, you know, darn those gays and their homosexual agenda, seducing our men away from the women. I almost believed it.”

“What?” Peggy asked, taken aback.

“And our women away from the men, of course,” I added, remembering she was a lesbian. “It’s unnatural, you know, and sodomy is the worst violation against God a good Christian could possibly commit.”

“What,” Burr said.

“Sorry,  _ querido, _ ” I said, deliberate in my Spanish, “Was my sarcasm insufficiently blatant?”

“No,” Peggy said, “Senator Burr, your husband is right about the hashtag. Do you have a response to the good people standing with you?” Burr went into full-out politician mode.

“I greatly appreciate the outpouring of support that I’ve received, especially that which came in the form of donations to my charities. But of course, and the people know this, it’s not about me.”

“No?” Peggy raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, “How not?”

“I’ll grant,” Burr said, “That Senator Laurens was yelling about me. But that’s not the issue here -- people yell about their in-laws all the time.” 

“My father more and ruder than most,” I put in. Burr nodded a concession at me.

“The issue,” Burr said, “Is that Senator Laurens used ableist, queer-antagonist, and racist slurs.” 

“At volume, in an airport,” Peggy said. Burr nodded again.

“There were children present whose parents had to explain to them what those words mean. There were people there who had flashbacks to times they were attacked using those words.”

“There are people in South Carolina,” I said, playing up my drawl, “Who are looking at their Democratic-Republican neighbors and saying, ‘You elected  _ that? _ ’”

“There are children looking at their parents’ Democratic-Republican stickers and remembering their parents going out for Senator Laurens in the last election and thinking, ‘This is what my parents elected. This is what they want me to be.’”

“Is that really going to be the children’s reaction, though?” I asked. “I was raised by that man and fully support his departure from politics. And this planet.” I turned to the camera. “NASA, if you want to send that man to Mars, let me know, or at least invite me to the goodbye celebration.”

“Jeez,” Burr muttered. “You’re as bad as Hamilton.”

Peggy laughed. 

“Actually,” I said, “I’m worse. Hamilton will stay on the topic of politics. I don’t care about politics. I found another cockroach, by the way.”

“I have called the exterminator,” Burr said, “I said they’d think that’s what their parents wanted, not that they’d agree.”

“Yes, but then, like smart mini humans, they rebel. Down with the oppressive ‘parent.’” I put finger quotes around ‘parent’. “How dare they dictate bedtimes and force us to go to school.” Burr rubbed his face.

“If I understand Patsy correctly, you did that,” he said.

“True,” I said, “Dad only tried to dictate our ambitions, our affections, and our orientations. He forgot the whole having to feed and water the kids thing as well.” Burr grabbed my hand. 

“Not a model parent,” he said, “Politics, dear.”

“But politics is boring. It’s just people in Mulligan’s suits arguing over the implications of stuff they might support if their corporate backers call them back.”

“Sometimes,” Burr said, “Politics also involves telling people that yelling slurs in a public airport is not acceptable. It’s behavior unbecoming of an adult, much less and elected official.”

“But that’s not normal. Usually you get home tired because the DRs find it hilarious to pit you and Hamilton against each other in debate.”

“It is funny to watch,” Peggy said. “Senator Burr, are you saying that the Democratic-Republican Party condemns Senator Laurens’ behavior?”

“I condemn it,” Burr said, “I believe Secretary Jefferson is having a press conference as party spokesman tonight.”

“Why Jefferson?” I asked, “ Also, will he be wearing that atrocious magenta suit? That must break at least three laws of fashion and good taste.”

“Secretary Jefferson frequently serves as the public voice of the Democratic-Republican Party,” Burr said, “And I have no idea.”

“Senator Burr,” Peggy said, pointedly not looking at me, “Is your husband’s inability to stay on topic a reason you didn’t make your marriage public?” Burr shrugged.

“When the attempted topic is politics, I won’t stay on topic because politics is boring," I said. "Healthcare, I could rant about for hours.”

“You do, dear,” Burr said, looking tiredly at me. “Not here. This is not the right time.”

“I know,” I muttered grumpily, dropping my head onto Burr’s shoulder and pretending to go to sleep. 

“Alright, we have time for one last question,” Peggy said as someone behind the camera tapped his watch. “Senator Burr, are you going to be running for president next election?”

“I am not planning to, next election, no,” Burr said. I sat up.

“Please do, I’d make a fabulous First Lord.”

“I’m not running this election. I’m not nearly qualified enough, yet.”

“Please? I promise to cook and clean and rub your feet when you come back from cabinet meetings?” I stuck my lower lip out at him and gave him my best bambi eyes. “I’ve even already started printing ‘First Lord’ on t-shirts.”

“Oh, John,” Burr said, sighing hugely, and put his head in his hands.

“Thank you Mr. Laurens, Senator Burr for joining me here,” Peggy said. “And now the weather.”


	14. What the Actual Fuck

Emily grinned lasciviously around my door frame. “Your husband’s here,” she said, “And he’s  _ hot. _ ”John followed her gaze into the room and wrapped his arm around my shoulder affectionately. 

“Yes I am,” he said. “Jealous?”

Emily shrugged. “I’m saving myself for a scandalous office affair. I am the secretary, after all.”

“You’ll have to find someone else to have it with,” I said, “I’m a married man.”

“That doesn’t stop most men in the senate,” Emily said. John grumbled.

“There are a number of reasons I’m not having sex with you,” I said, “And they start with the fact that I employ you. They could end there, in fact.”

“How about the fact that you’re super gay and in manly love?” she asked. “That’s gotta be on that list  _ somewhere _ .”

“I was very impressed by Hamilton’s effort to pull a no-homo when describing a same gender relationship,” I said. 

“I think he was just emphasizing your manly manliness,” John said. Emily chuckled.

“Is there another kind?”

“Probably,” I said, “There’s more than one kind of everything these days.”

“BURR!!” a very familiar and unwelcome voice shouted from down the hall. 

“Ugh,” I muttered. “Almost. Gotta be faster next time.”

“Oh?” John asked, confused and concerned. “Who’s that?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary?” I asked. 

Jefferson walked in, momentarily surprised by Emily and John. Emily looking incredibly annoyed. “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” He sneered. “You thought you were pregnant, didn’t you?”

I frowned, and ‘checked’ my stomach. “I am pregnant. I don’t have to think anything.”

“No you idiot, your wedding date,” he spat. 

“Oh!” John said, sounding enlightened.  _ Shit.  _ “You were the one who walked in on us. Don’t I have a great butt?”

“John!” I said. 

“What,” Jefferson said, thrown. “You were out of the country!”

“Well,” John said, “I was about to be. Hence the closet.”

“JOHN!” I said. 

“I’m missing a step here,” Emily said. 

“Then allow me to fill you in,” John said dramatically. Oh no. This is why he was worse than Hamilton. “Four years ago, I was about to be sent away,” he put the back of his hand on his forehead. I put my hand on his mouth. He licked it, so I pulled it away to wipe on my pants. “Burr and I were deeply in the manliest love that ever manly loved.” I walked back to my desk, ignoring him. “In mourning of our parting we decided to consummate our love in a closet, and sincerely enjoyed it. But lo! The door was opened by a dark figure, and then immediately closed again. I feared for Burr’s reputation but alas, I still was forced to leave him and travel the world to seek out infectious diseases, white man’s burden style. Anyway, in the heat of our passion we forgot condoms existed, and as such, almost accidentally conceived, hence our shotgun wedding.”

“This is,” I remarked from where I was writing the email I’d been planning to leave for tomorrow, “All false.”

“Oh darling, there’s no point in trying to protect your reputation now,” John said, patting my head condescendingly, “You’re a married, very pregnant man. Everyone can forgive your indiscretions from back when you were naught but a fresh-faced youth dreaming of a political career.”

I glared at him as I typed. 

“Is that really your cover story?” Jefferson asked, eyebrow raised. “I take it you haven’t told him the truth. Why? Don’t want to admit it to your husband?”

“Admit what? I’m very aware of Burr’s indiscretions from before I married him,” John said. “After all, he had all of them with me.”

“Except my alleged secret wife in college,” I said, “But that’s more an indiscretion of absence than anything else. But no, John knows everything.” 

“I should hope so. I was there,” John said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get this one home. He bites after 6.”

“I do  _ what? _ ”

“I never said I didn’t enjoy it,” John said, dragging me up from my chair and pulling me towards the door. “Your charm alone wouldn’t keep me, after all.”

Emily burst out laughing. “I like him,” she said, pointing at John. “Please keep him. Also, do pick your husband up more often, Mr. Laurens.”

“Anything for the fabulous woman who keeps this man in check at work,” John said, bowing to her. “I’d hate to be you.”

I took advantage of his distraction to lock my office door. “Just ignore him,” I told Jefferson, “He does this for effect.”

“If I was doing it for effect, Jefferson would have a comical expression on his face!” John cried, affronted. “I do it because I love you, darling. Now let’s get you home and into your bath. You haven’t had one in days.”

“That’s because I shower,” I said, “Now, I know you’re joking. That endearment was too Southern to be serious.”

“When am I not serious?” John asked, pulling me down the hall as Jefferson trailed us, baffled. 

“Most of the time,” I muttered.

“If I wasn’t being serious would I do this?” John asked, stopping, dipping me and kissing me. I kissed back. It would keep him from saying anything else.

Loud kissing noises broke us apart.  _ Hamilton _ . With a very annoyed Eliza trying to pull him somewhere else. Why was he in the  _ Senate _ Office Building? 

“Secretary Jefferson!” Hamilton called. “Got stuck third-wheeling the lovebirds? I’m sorry. Last time they caught me I didn’t get out for at least an hour.”

“When was that,” I muttered at John, “Or is this more drama?”

“Not sure,” John whispered back.

“Why are you here, Hamilton?” Jefferson demanded.

“I came to see if Burr was still in. Clearly not. No worries. Nothing important. See you two tomorrow!” he called, waving cheerfully. My face was on fire. I straightened up, a feat made more difficult by my, hm, changing center of gravity, and attempted to regain my dignity. John fussed absently and wrapped an arm around my waist.

“Indeed,” I said to Hamilton, “I am out. Do we have an appointment tomorrow? If not, can you drop Emily an email so she can make one in the morning?” 

“Already done,” Eliza said. “Come on, Hamilton. You still have things to do.”

“Yes Hamilton,” Jefferson said in an obnoxiously high-pitched voice. “Go. Wifey’s calling.”

“ _ Wifey? _ ” Hamilton sputtered. “My brilliant wife is alerting me to my continuing duties, yes. And there’s no shame in that!”

“Well then, maybe she should have the position as Secretary of the Treasury and you can stay at home with the children and be pet by Washington.”

“Let’s go,” I whispered to John, “It’s only going to get more explosive, and they will try to pull us in.”

“Nah, this looks fun,” John whispered back.

“Pet by Washington?” Hamilton cried loudly. “I’ll have you know that I have a great respect for her excellency and she, me.”  Eliza pulled out her phone and started texting.

“ _ Respect _ ,” Jefferson said, “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

“Yes,” Hamilton spat, “Because that’s what it  _ is.  _ Not that I’d expect you to know.” Hamilton’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” he snarled. He took a moment to compose himself when he saw who was calling. “Madame President?”

“Weeeell,” I whispered to John, “Eliza pulled out the big guns.”

“Really? Why?” John asked. “That seems unnecessary. And how would President Washington know, anyway?”

“Eliza texted her,” I whispered back.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hamilton finished and hung up.

“What did mommy have to say?” Jefferson asked mockingly. Eliza caught Hamilton’s arm to hold him back. Jefferson’s phone rang.

“Anything touching on Hamilton’s relationship with the President gets him in a fury fast, and the Washingtons are the only ones who can talk him down,” I filled in for John, who was looking confused, but pretty sure someone had been insulted.

“Hello Madam President,” Jefferson said, grinning broadly. His face fell quickly as Washington yelled at him. “Yes ma’am,” he said, more soberly. He hung up.

“It seems,” he said, “That I have places to be. Good evening.” The horrible magenta suit billowed behind him as he walked away, but it couldn’t disguise the slump to his shoulders.

“Well good riddance,” Hamilton said. “Maybe now we can have an intelligent conversation.”

“Or John can get Burr home,” Eliza said. “You look beat.”

“Yes ma’am,” John said, saluting her, taking my arm and marching me out. “Never argue with women who argue with Hamilton,” he advised me.

“You’re not wrong,” I sighed. “Besides, he seems to have remarkably good taste.” John chuckled.

“He does,” he said as he helped me into the car. “In women and enemies.”

“In partners in general,” I said, and stretched out. “Ah, my feet hurt.”

“I was about to accuse you of being a romantic,” John said. “But no.”

“Describing me as romantic is like describing Hamilton as quiet,” I said. “It’s only true under very specific circumstances.” I put my hand on John’s knee and squeezed gently, just to make it clear what circumstances I meant. 

“In the bedroom under sufficient mood lighting and plenty of duct tape?” John asked as we pulled out of the parking lot. Apparently I wasn’t clear enough.

“All right,” I said, attempting to lower my eyebrows, “I’m more of a romantic than Hamilton is quiet. Your presence is generally enough.” John looked away in a (futile) attempt to hide his blush.

“You’re so cute,” he said.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Yes, dear.”


	15. So... Him?

I waited until we were safely back in Burr’s apartment--our apartment-- before beginning the interrogation.

“You slept with Jefferson?” I asked, trying to sound non-judgemental.

“I hate that man,” Burr said, and rested his head gently on the wall. “Yep. Slept with Jefferson. Sex was shit. Got an introduction to Madison out of it, and he’s been too embarrassed to press the matter since he got back from France.” He sighed. “Sometimes it’s just easier to give someone what they want and ride out the situation. Especially if there’s a time limit.” He shrugged. 

“Mary’s eighteen in nine months,” I said, “We almost made it.”

“Heh,” Burr said. “That’s not what I tell people we were waiting for.”

“Jefferson,” I said, “Is shit in bed?”

“All smoke no fire,” Burr said, not lifting his head. “Please do not remind me.”

“Isn’t Jefferson straight?” I asked, confused.

“Allegedly,” he muttered. “Oof.” One of the twins must have tumbled.

I started toward the couch and, after some encouragement, he followed me. I sat him down, his head on my lap. “Not one of your proudest moments?”

“Definitely not,” Burr muttered, wincing and shifting slightly.

“Imagine those kids,” I mused. “Jefferson’s genes would probably demand you give birth to them wearing magenta suits, to the horror and confusion of doctors and biologists. And Mulligan.”

Burr laughed. “Gosh that would have been a nightmare.” He looked up at me. “I’m happy it’s you.”

“Well, when your comparison point is Jefferson,” I said, smiling down at him. “Gosh, Mulligan’s face, though. He’d be impressed with your uterus’ tailoring skills but horrified and confused about the rest. I’d pay to see that. Always nice to see Mulligan  _ not  _ expecting something.”

“If my uterus is anything like the rest of me, it wouldn’t be able to tailor,” Burr muttered, starting to fall asleep. “They’d come out in terribly sewn but beautifully embroidered magenta bags.” … I was gonna have to sew some magenta bags for the babies, wasn’t I? The toll it takes, maintaining all my running jokes. 

His breathing evened out and I reached into my pocket for my phone. Darn. No massive epidemics that needed my attention. Oh well. I quickly texted Mulligan to ask for some magenta fabric. He still used it in smaller quantities for other people and he wouldn’t appreciate my asking for terribly sewn anything. He’d probably be downright insulted and find the act of sewing badly physically painful.

I started playing addictive cellphone games while stroking Burr’s head. Ten more minutes and then I’d wake him up for dinner. Or when I ran out of lives, I grimaced as I lost the level again. 

Burr rolled onto his side so that his face was in my stomach. “Love you,” he muttered, clumsily patting my face. One finger hit my eye, which I closed just in time, while his palm bumped my nose.

I froze. Did he really? Was he just saying that because he was deliriously sleepy? I shook my head. Not thinking about it. I checked the time: six minutes left. 

The phone games couldn’t keep my attention anymore. I dropped the phone by my leg and rubbed Burr’s head absently. He couldn’t have -- not thinking about it. He wouldn’t mean it like Dad, anyway. He wasn’t like that. 

“You silly man,” I muttered to him in Hindi, which he didn’t speak. “You are not supposed to love me.” 

“I sincerely hope that wasn’t a swear,” Burr mumbled, rolling onto his back. “Or an implication as to how well you know my mother.”

“No, no,” I assured him. I put on an overdramatic calculating face. “I  _ don’t  _ know your mother. Is that an implication?”

“Is that how people greet each other in Hindi?” Burr asked. “Hello, I don’t know your mother. How are you today?” I failed to avoid doubling over with laughter, and squished his face. He squirmed, I flailed, and we only barely remained on the dreadful sofa.

“If they do,” I choked out. “Then no one’s told me and I’ve been committing an egregious social faux pas.” Burr laughed. He sat up, straddled my lap and kissed me. I flailed semi-helplessly but with no real objections. At some point, Burr had figured out how I liked to be kissed.

I had to resort to tickling him to get him to let me up. “Dinner,” I told him sternly when he let me breathe, “Then kissing.”

“I’m supposed to be the demanding one,” Burr grumbled as he got up. 

“Yes,” I said, “You are.” I took his hand and walked him toward the kitchen. “Perogative of pregnancy. Your demandingness is that of three because your heart is pure. Or whatever.”

“My heart may be pure but my mind isn’t,” he snapped, still annoyed at me. “It can’t decide whether to strangle you or drag you back into the gutter with it.”

“Just don’t try to do both,” I said, “Erotic asphyxiation isn’t erotic.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “I’ve seen too many people struggling to breath to find the thought enjoyable.”

“Well that successfully killed the mood,” Burr muttered. “I swear, if I didn’t love you so much I _ would _ strangle you. Probably would have a long time ago, actually.” 

“You did it  _ again _ !” I said, “ _ Stop  _ that!”

“What?” Burr asked, affronted. I couldn’t tell if he was being deliberately oblivious or not. “You’re the one who killed the mood.”

“Urgh,” I said, “It’s not cute.”

“No, you’re cute,” he said, yanking me down to peck my nose. I wasn’t  _ that _ much taller, was I? “No more jokes about strangling, got it. Dinner!” 

“That’s not,” I said, but he was waddling away already. I rubbed my face. “This is not going to go over well, is it.” It really wasn’t a question.

“What’s not?” Burr kept his back to me as he scooped soup into bowls to microwave. “Get the bread out, please.”

Now I knew he was trying to get me to say it. I pulled the bread out of the fridge. “Never mind,” I said. “What’s the deal with Washington, Jefferson and Hamilton?”

“Uh-huh,” Burr said, but went along. “Washington likes both of them, or at least used to. I think she may be a bit ticked with Jefferson right now, what with what he’s been leaking to the media --nothing illegal,” Burr turned around and handed me a bowl, “But all nasty things about Hamilton. Who has been being relatively well behaved lately.”

“Probably has to do with Eliza,” I said as we sat down at the table. “And having two children underfoot. Must be tiring, even for him.”

“Fair enough,” Burr said, “And Washington considers Hamilton something in the way of a foster-child. Hamilton resists this. Strongly.”

“He’s had parents and the expectations were always through the roof,” I stated. I remembered those calls for money at two in the morning. Remembered Hamilton falling for it every time, just to hear his father’s voice. “He doesn’t need to add someone else to that list. No doubt Washington’s standards are even higher.”

“I don’t have a point of comparison,” Burr said, “But she expects,” he paused making a ticking noise with his tongue.

“Not murder?” I filled in. “Not quite perfection but as good as you can do?”

“As good as you can  _ be _ ,” Burr said. 

“That sounds exhausting,” I said. “At least all Hamilton’s father wants is money for approval.”

Burr shrugged. “I don’t remember my parents. It’s always interesting, seeing how badly it can go.” He looked down. “I’ve got a list of things  _ not  _ to do, at least.”

“I mean, your cousins weren’t exactly spectacular, either,” I pointed out. “‘Go away. Sure. You can go to college at 12. Just leave us alone.’ That can’t have been pleasant.”

“Well, no,” Burr said, “But there was no expectation of emotional bond on either side. That was Sally’s job.” He shrugged. “I like to think I turned out ok. It’s how I got to where I am today.”

“Liking the result doesn’t mean I approve of the process,” I said. “You deserved better.”

“I’ve never met anyone who you can’t say that to,” Burr said.

“Well,” I said, “Our kids are getting better than we got.” I took his hand. “Promise you that.”

“But when you look at our basis of comparison, that’s not hard,” Burr pointed out. “We could take our kids to KKK meetings and still be better parents than ours were.”

“At least my Dad never did  _ that _ ,” I said, “Wait, can you say that about Mulligan?”

“ _ Of course  _ he doesn’t take his kids to KKK meetings,” Burr said. I shook my head. “Oh, you mean deserved better?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t have an overly energetic spouse,” I said, “Had good parents and seems to be doing pretty well for himself.”

“Huh,” Burr said. “Maybe we should ask them for advice, all three of them. Their kids seem to be doing pretty well, too.”

“He’d suggest we add another person to our pile,” I said, chuckling. “Not sure who he’d suggest, but I kinda don’t want to know. Also, he seems really busy lately. Not sure what’s up.”

“We do need a nanny, though,” Burr said, “For when we’re both busy. I hope his busy-ness isn’t indicative of another little rebellion, the Whiskey rebellion was quite enough excitement for one… lifetime.”

“Dear god you make us sound old,” I said, hunching my back and curling my lips in while pretending to use a cane. “Back in my day all we did was walk uphill both ways to school and got into fights with Hamilton when we weren’t breaking up fights between him and Jefferson. What is this smartphone and rebellion nonsense? Young people these days.” I shook a shaky fist in mock fury. Burr outright laughed.

“What do we need in a nanny, though?” Burr asked, “I’ll ask around, but I need to know what I’m asking for…”

“Someone willing to nurse our kids, ideally. Breast milk --” Burr held up a hand.

“Please don’t give me the lecture on breast milk again, love, I get the point.”

“Well,  _ my _ point still stands,” I said. “You’re looking for someone who recently gave birth, most likely.”

“And will then be managing three infants,” Burr said, “How many people are we going to be hiring?”

“Well, if you find someone whose child is a year or two, they’d still be nursing but also the child would officially be sentient and mobile.”

“And this person would have to be trustworthy,” Burr said. “Tricky.”

“I’ll ask the Mulligans,” I said, “They know everyone.”

“On second thought,” Burr said, “Just start looking. The Mulligans will probably send a perfectly tailored suit for the right person.”

“Our interviews would literally be ‘Hi, please try on this suit. If it fits you, you’re hired. Please don’t ask questions. Our friend is weird and cryptic.’”

“Cindernanny.” We giggled. “Okay,” Burr said, “That was excessively funny. I should get work done.” He pushed back from the table and stood. “Unless you want to talk, of course.”


	16. THE THIRD HALF OF THE FEELS

I’d been trying to work for almost an hour when John spoke. He’d done the dishes more or less as if everything was normal. It was only the tension in his shoulders that made it clear that things were  _ not  _ all right. He was favoring his right arm again. 

“When I asked Dad why he was sending me to a church camp,” John said, “He said, ‘Because I love you,’ and there was no arguing with that.”

“Your father’s love for you was toxic to you,” I said calmly. “It would have been for most people.”

“That--” John sputtered and tugged on his hair, “It...Let me finish.” He held up a hand in my direction, looking away. I bit my tongue. “My father’s love-- alleged love-- for me was --” he sighed, shoulders dropping. “Toxic, yeah, toxic’s a good way to put it. He didn’t -- didn’t want the me I wanted to be, he wanted, well, you know.” John waved vaguely at me. I didn’t know, not really, but I made an agreeing noise to avoid startling him. 

“Love doesn’t always imply respect,” I said, leaning forward towards him. “It can, but in many situations it doesn’t.”

“Yeah!” John said, “Yeah, that exactly, but--” He slumped visibly and ran his hands over his face. “I don’t want you to love me I want you to respect me,” he mumbled.

“Why can’t I do both?” I asked. “I don’t say I love people I don’t respect. I’m happy to use respect more often, but ‘I respect you’ just does not have the same ring to it. Besides, we’re already deep in manly love.”

“Ugh,” John said concisely, and came round the table to bury his face in my neck. “You are silly,” he told me. 

“Yep,” I said, and kissed his neck, since it was handy. “But that’s got nothing to do with my respect for you.” 

“Who are you and what on earth did you do to my serious husband?” John demanded jokingly.

“I seem to recall Hamilton tying him to a chair,” I replied, smiling.

“That didn’t  _ really _ happen, did it?” John asked. 

“No,” I assured him. “It did not. I asked Hamilton if he’d being willing to distract your father while I snuck you out, and he said that I had better stay at home and out of Henry Laurens’ reach. There’s only so much of a distraction that he could provide. After all, well, now we all know what he thinks of me.”

John hugged me tightly. I choked dramatically so he’d let me go.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that,” John said. 

I shrugged. “I’ve gotten way worse than that from people I’ve respected significantly more.” John made a face at me. 

“Worse than screaming slurs,” he said, “Really.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t tend to respect people who express their disapproval by screaming slurs. Like your father.”

“So someone you  _ respect _ has been yelling at you recently?” I shrugged. “Aaron,” John said, “What are we dealing with here?” 

“Well,” I said, “I respect Washington -- who doesn’t -- and we know what she thinks of me.” 

“Humph,” John said, “You’re not made of solid ambition, whatever she says.” I raised my eyebrows at him.

“No, I’m at least 20% mathematics,” I said. He snorted.

“ _ And  _ you keep helping my siblings out. I don’t see how that’s going to win you political points.”   


“Please,” I said, “Having a high-powered lawyer on my side is certainly going to come in handy, and you know Patsy’s gonna be good.”

“Uh-huh,” John said, “Sure. And the plans to keep my other siblings safe are just to convince us both you’re trustworthy.”

“Also Washington doesn’t know about them. Well, didn’t. And, according to Plan A, still shouldn’t.” I wrinkled my nose. “Plan A was nice.”

“Wait, what was Plan A?” John asked.

“Oh,” I said, “Plan A was to put this off till Mary was an adult.” I paused. “This being telling your father, sitting out the resulting media storm, etc.” I waved vaguely.

“Yes,” John said, sitting down next to me. “What’s Plan B?”

“Plan B,” I said, “Is for Mary to head off to her boarding school just as usual, then possibly come visit us for the summer.”

“Oh,” John said, straightening up, “That would be wonderful! I haven’t seen her in person in years.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said, “Because Plan C is to have her move in with us for the last year of highschool.”

“Well, it is her senior year and she’s there now, so let’s roll with B for now. She can come visit at Christmas.”

“Yep,” I said. “Where C comes in, is if your father refuses to pay for the next semester.”

“That’s unlikely,” John said. “It would take way more before he didn’t send Mary to school. Hell, I was being gay all over college and he still paid for it.” He thought for a second. “It would probably take Mary enjoying congress outside of wedlock with her her black, Jewish girlfriend at a military abortion clinic. And even then, she’d be working for the military so she’d be ok.”

“Hail Satan and good day,” I said grinning, crossing myself incorrectly.

“Dear, that was a triangle with your forehead and shoulders,” John said, chuckling and taking my hand. “Up.  _ Down _ , left, right. Otherwise you’re making the illuminati symbol.”

“Maybe that’s what I wanted to do,” I said, holding his hand tightly and wrapping his arm around me. He fell clumsily into the part of my lap not occupied by stomach. “Anyway,” I said, “Yes, let us stick with Plan B.”  Assuming Henry Laurens hadn’t been siphoning campaign funds, his money troubles shouldn’t get bad enough to force Mary to a new school.

“Sounds good,” John muttered, head in my lap. “What happened to the whole dragging me to the bedroom thing?”

“You distracted me,” I said.

“Well, I’d like to formally undistract you,” he said. “We both need to get up early tomorrow.” He sat up and dragged me along.

“Fine,” I grumbled, pushing myself up and following mock-reluctantly. “But you’d better make it worth my while.” 

“Yes, sir,” he said, turning to salute me.


	17. NOPE NOPE NOPE

My phone buzzed as I was walking into Burr’s building. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Eliza.  _ Calling _ me instead of texting. 

“Hello?” I said. 

“John,” Eliza said, “Drive me to the hospital.”

“Where are you?” I asked, going into “doctor/nurse” mode. Burr liked to call it doctor mode, and I’d given up trying to remind him that technically, I was a nurse.  
“I’m coming down the stairs toward the parking garage,” she said. “My water just broke.”

I interrogated her briefly about such things as the time between her contractions -- she snapped at me that this wasn’t her first pregnancy and she knew what she was doing. I closed my phone as the elevator doors opened to reveal her, and offered her an arm.

She waved it away and stalked out. “Where’s your car? If this one is anything like Phillip, it’ll be out within the hour.”

“Did he come out screaming about capitalism and Washington?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood as we got into the car.

She chuckled. “No. He came out screaming incomprehensibly and did so for at least an hour.”

I nodded. “Sounds about right. At least he’s vocal now and can say what he’s upset with.”

“Yeah,” she said noncommittally. “Now he blames all his problems on Capitalism or Jefferson.”

I burst out laughing. “Not sure if that’s better or worse.” Eliza chuckled as she texted. 

“Burr’s meeting us at the hospital via a ride from Hamilton,” she said. “Not ideal, but fuck it. Burr is capable of resisting the urge to murd--ooh.” 

“Contraction?” I asked, offering my hand as a pain outlet.

“Yep,” Eliza grimaced, reaching into her purse and pulling out a very worn stress ball. I walked her to the car in companionable semi-silence. She’d started counting absently. She settled into the back seat, increasing the size of the middle waist-only seat belt so she could comfortably lie down. 

We got to the hospital with minimal interference and only 2 contractions. They got us a room in the maternity ward fairly quickly and I sat down next to the bed and offered my hand again. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she said. “This one seems to be taking her time.”

“Well, someone in your house should know how to,” I said, making both of us laugh.

It felt like hours had passed with minimal changes before the love of my life and the bane of his existence burst through the door. 

“John!” Hamilton cried, hugging me. “Thanks for looking after her!” 

“She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself,” I said, patting Hamilton’s back absently. “I just drove.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” an orderly walking up to Hamilton and Burr. “Only the father is allowed in the delivery room.”

“Of course,” Burr said, “John?” I extracted myself from Hamilton and let him cling to his wife instead. I kissed Burr on the cheek, took his hand, and absconded the fuck out of there, to the orderly’s confusion.

“See you two later,” I called over my shoulder. “Thanks,  _ querido, _ ” I said to Burr as we climbed in the car, “I was about to go all medical.”

“You always go ‘all medical,’” Burr muttered. “You go ‘all medical’ whenever I sneeze.”

“I only go  _ slightly  _ medical when you sneeze,” I protested.

“If that’s ‘slightly medical’ I never want to see ‘all medical’,” Burr grumbled, buckling himself in as I pulled out of the parking lot. 

“We’re off to meet your alleged professor!” I cried, in both mock and real excitement. 

“I promise she’s real!” Burr said. “Also, never do that to me again.”

“What?” I asked.

“Get me stuck in traffic with Hamilton. Didn’t help that we’d just finished debating each other. He ranted at me. I fell asleep.”

“Good,” I said, “You haven’t been sleeping well.” Burr was sternly silent. It took me a moment. “Wait, I was supposed to sympathize, wasn’t I? Sorry.”

“Part of that is your fault,” He said, eyes drooping.

“No regrets!” I sang as I lowered the volume of the music.

“Nrg,” Burr muttered, waving a hand vaguely in my direction. We drove in silence for a moment as I turned my full attention to navigating the DC traffic.

“Shit, croissant!” I said, and made a sharp turn two blocks away from our apartment. Burr dozed in the car while I dashed into the bakery. I dropped the pastries on his lap and pulled away, taking a slightly longer way around to avoid the inexplicable reporters. Why on earth were there reporters outside  _ our  _ apartment? We hadn’t done anything interesting. 

Maybe it was someone else in the building. 

“Ugh,” Burr muttered as we passed the ones who had snuck around toward the back entrance, “This is why I hate spending time with Hamilton.”

“Huh,” I said eloquently.

“Paparazzi,” Burr said, slightly louder, as we escaped to the safety of the elevator. “They follow him like flies.” I shrugged. 

“I hope your alleged professor won’t be bothered by this.” Burr glared at me. “Sorry,” I said, “I hope Professor Prevost won’t be disturbed by all this media.”

“She will rise above it,” he said, forgetting himself sufficiently to smile like a teenager with his first crush.


	18. We all exist!

I paced around the table in nervousness as John cooked. “She doesn’t have any food restrictions. She  _ said  _ so,” I muttered.

_"Querido,_ ” John said, “Chill. Be cool. You are from New York, embrace the coldness of the winter. Think of snow. Of peace. Of that weird thing that happens when you breath out and it looks like you’re smoking.” I burst into slightly hysterical laughter and sat heavily down. One of the kids kicked. Ow.

“Sorry,” I muttered, my mind still racing. I’d vacuumed, mopped, swept, wait-did I do the bathroom? I thought so...unless I was remembering the last time I cleaned….

John casually set his pan on fire. I jumped. He laughed. “Wheee! Food on fire is the best food!”

“Is that necessary?” I demanded.

“No,” John said. “But it looks cool.”

The doorbell rang. I leapt to my feet, immediately lost my balance and fell back down. John laughed again. “Calm down,” he said. “The last time you were this tense you proposed to me.” He opened the door.

“Hi,” a very familiar voice said. “You must be John.” 

“Hello, Ma’am,” John said energetically. “You must be Theodosia. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Glass of water,” Theodosia said, taking off her sweater and shoes. 

“I got it,” I said, finally managing to stand up, and walking towards the fridge. “Ice?”

“Sure,” she said. “Good to see you, Aaron.”

“Good to see you too,” I said, head in the freezer.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” John said, enthusiastically shaking her hand. “It’s nice to know the person you’re naming your kids after exists.”

“Wait...what? Aaron!” Theodosia cried as I turned around, glass in hand. Oh no. “You have to warn people of these things!”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask before you name your kids after someone?” John asked, looking entertained. “Granted I wasn’t sure you existed or I would’ve made sure he did.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that, today,” Theodosia said, momentarily distracted. “Not that I was sure you existed either, but still.”

“Really?” John asked. “Who?”

“I don’t remember his name. Steak? No...Ham? Rather loud. Asked a lot of questions.”

“Hamilton?” John asked, before cracking up. 

“He’s always like that,” I said, “Hamilton, not John, although John is prone to fits of improbable humor.” John laughed harder at this description. 

“Oh, lighten up, Aaron,” Theodosia said, taking the glass from me, “Yes, you may name a child after me, just calm down so I don’t have to dump this on your head.”

“Which would make me calmer how?” I asked, then pressed on. “I hadn’t  _ decided  _ to name a child after you, I’d asked John if he’d be alright with it. There is a difference.”

“Oh, I s’pose,” John said, “Dinner!” 

“Thank you, love,” I said, pulling out Theodosia’s chair before sitting down myself.

“So,” John said, grinning at Theodosia. Uh oh. “You didn’t think I existed, either?”

“Well, in my defense, it sounded too good to be true. Someone who could cook for Aaron, look after him, and was conveniently absent most of the time?” She shrugged. “Also, named ‘John,’ the most ordinary of names.” She did have a point, I thought. Whoops.

“Well,” John said. “Personally I’m just glad Burr got over his massive crush on you to marry me.”

“John!” Theodosia giggled. No, that sounded too mild. Theodosia laughed big joyful laughs. She wasn’t interrupted by coughs-- the current treatment must be working. “Ugh,” I muttered. 

“I’m glad,” Theodosia said, “The age difference was a little perturbing.”

“Must run in the family,” I muttered.

“Nope!” John said, “We are not talking about Tapping Reeve except to say ‘Thank heavens he’s still in prison.’ Done, now, moving on.” 

“Yes,” I said, ignoring Theodosia’s raised eyebrows, “How was the conference? I wish I could have gone.”

“Why couldn’t you?” Theodosia asked.

“Congress was in session,” I said, “I’m not John Adams, to be popping in and out on a whim.”

“John Adams doesn’t have a real job, anyway,” John said, dishing me out some salad. 

“Oh,” Theodosia said. “Shouldn’t you be in New York, then?”

“No, this is the U.S. capitol,” John said -- I had just taken a bite.

“I know,” Theodosia said, “But shouldn’t a New York Senator be in -- wait, New York’s not the state capitol either.”

“Albany,” I said, “No, I represent New York in the U.S. Senate.”

“Wait,” John said, “Your coworkers don’t know about your marriage, and your friends don’t know about your job. Could you segment your life any more thoroughly?” 

“Yes,” I said, “I could not tell anyone about my sister. Anyway, I did tell Prof-- Theodosia -- about my job. So there.”

“Ah, young love.” Theodosia sighed. “I suppose this means the meddling bastards you complain of are, in fact, the ones the internet keeps giving me rude cartoons of. I guess steak-ham is the one on the box with the ponytail and the megaphone, then.”

John snorted. “Probably, yes. I avoid looking at political cartoons these days.”

“Except to redraw them,” I said. “How  _ was  _ the conference?”

“Other than many questions from Ponytailed Megaphone? Dull,” Theodosia shrugged. “Some committee. Most clearly had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Can I call Hamilton that from now on?” John asked, grinning. ”No, maybe you should.”   
He waggled his eyebrows at me. Theodosia smiled at his antics. 

“I’m not going to mess with your relationship with Hamilton,” I said. “But I won’t call him that.” John heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine,  _ querido, _ I will take that burden upon myself,” he said.

“So, when are you going on maternity leave?” Theodosia asked. “Is there even a precedence for this?”

“No,” John said. “I keep trying to get him to claim the next three years as maternity leave, but you know Burr, working until the last day.” He tisked at me. I shrugged.

“It’s what they elected me to do,” I said, “And someone has to try to keep Jefferson and Hamilton from pulling the government apart between them.”

“No truer statement has been said,” John said, nodding solemnly. 


	19. PLOT

 

I grumpily crawled out of bed and threw on my bathrobe as Burr showered; it was one of the few items of clothing I owned that wasn’t Mulligan-made. I staggered to the door fully intending to march down to the mailbox and pick up the mail; something Burr usually did, or at least used to before pregnancy. I almost tripped over the large box under the newspaper and welcome mat, hidden the way a small child would attempt to hide behind a curtain.

I picked it up and left it on the table before actually going downstairs. Whatever passive-aggressive clothing Mulligan sent this time could wait. When I got back, Burr was already in his button down and trousers for the day, looking into the box with a very strange expression on his face.

“What did he send this time?” I asked, closing our door.

“Uh, this,” He said, pulling it out. It was made out of the turtle fabric, all the better for him to tell me that it was for me and I’d fucked up somehow, wait. Was that a  _ ballgown? _ What the actual fuck, Mulligan? 

“Ooh, I love it,” I said, taking it from Burr and twirling with it like Cinderella. “I have no idea what I did wrong this time, but WORTH EVERY MINUTE!” I sang loudly.

Burr sighed, smiling. “Of course you like it, but you should at least find out what you did. Frankly, this time I’m curious too. We haven’t done anything that would annoy him lately, have we?”

“No,” I said, pausing to think. “I think we’ve been pretty good, lately. Maybe he’s annoyed with how we’ve been handling our paparazzi?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Give him a call. I’ll make breakfast.”

“Alright,” I said, draping the dress over the back of the chair. It had  _ petticoats _ . Many, judging by the stiffness of the skirt and the sounds it made when I shifted it around. I dialed Mulligan’s number.

“Hi John,” he said, picking up almost immediately. He sounded tired. Maybe he and his partners had been up too late again.

“Hi Mull,” I said. “Quick question. What did I do this time?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, definitely confused.

“I just got the gown. Both of us would like to know what I did to deserve it.” I winked at Burr who rolled his eyes at me.

“What gown? I didn’t send you anything. You’ve been good.” Mulligan was definitely confused. This was a nice position to be in, if a little weird.

“The ballgown you just sent me made out of the horrendous turtle fabric,” I said. “Only you have that fabric, and your label is stitched in, so it has to come from you.”

I heard a very loud sigh. And then “KELSIE!!!”

“Mull?”

“Hold on one second,” he said quickly, before I heard the thunk of his phone on the table. “Kelsie!” he called again, much fainter this time. I thought I heard a door close. I bobbed my head and stared at the ceiling. Burr looked at me, confused as he scrambled eggs. I shrugged. Who was this ‘Kelsie’ and what did she have to do with this? It wasn’t one of the kids, right? I mentally went through the Mulliganlet names. Nope. No ‘Kelsie’ there.

“John? You there?” 

“Yeah?”

“Sorry about that,” Mulligan said. “We acquired a new...acquaintance of sorts.” He sighed. I could almost hear him rubbing his face with his free hand. “She’s got a weird sense of humor and far too much time on her hands.”

“Well I like her,” I said, grinning brightly. “Thank her for me, won’t you?”

“Ugh,” Mulligan muttered. “I’ll make you a nice suit or gown.” 

“No need,” I said brightly. “Thanks.” I hung up.

“What happened?” Burr asked, setting two plates of eggs and bacon on the table. 

“I think the Mulligans are adding to the pile,” I said. “And she’s apparently got a fantastic sense of humor.”

“Well, she’ll fit in nicely,” Burr said, not really paying attention as he was going through the mail on the table, sorting junk from important.

“Hey!” I exclaimed, pulling two envelopes made of really nice paper out of the junk pile. “What’s this?”

“Just invites that’re already on my calendar. They’re really just a formality.”

“Oh? Where are we going?” I asked.

“I keep forgetting  you’re not about to leave for another country,” he muttered. “The Federalist and Democratic-Republican unofficial conventions. It’s basically just a big fancy party.”

“The Federalist convention?”

“Yeah,” Burr said, “Check your email. Hamilton always invites you, but you’ve never been here.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. And I get a plus one for these things.” I squinted at Burr with exaggeratedly lowered eyebrows. “Are you going to  _ spy? _ ”

“Given that the Federalists have Mulligan, it would be only fair,” Burr said dryly, “But nothing gets done at these things that doesn’t end up on the internet anyway.”

“Fair enough,” I said. I considered the turtle ball gown. “Would you kill me if I wore that?” Burr shrugged.

“Mulligan would come in and take in all your clothing so none of it fit.” He took the envelopes out of my hand and kissed me. “Maybe he’ll make you a nice dress and me a tux to match.” 

“Maybe their new addition will make you a suit out of the turtle fabric,” I countered. “That could be fun.”

“No,” Burr said, smiling. “Flamboyant fashion is your job.” I snickered at him. 

“And yours is terrible taste in men.”

“My taste has improved vastly,” he informed me seriously. “Are you still on about that? I thought we settled it weeks ago around about the ‘love’ conversation.”

I shook my head. “I just can’t get over your sleeping with Thomas fucking Jefferson.” Burr winced. 

“I am now imagining Thomas Payne fucking Jefferson and I wish I weren’t,” he said. “I regret sleeping with Jefferson for many reasons. You deserved a better marriage.”

“I  _ like _ the one I’ve  _ got, _ ” I said. 

“Excuse me,” Burr said, raising a pacifying hand, “I mean you deserved a better  _ wedding _ . And an actual proposal.”

“Oh,” I said. “How are you so good at making me not angry?”

Burr shrugged and handed me a plate of scrambled eggs. “Practice?”


	20. Help...help...HELP

“Okay,” I said, and tucked John’s hand into the crook of my elbow, “We can do this. Try not to act like a character from West Side Story.”

“But  _ Burr _ ,” John said. I looked at him. “Okay, okay.” He kissed my cheek and we entered the swarm. It was very pleasant introducing John to this donor and that politician as “My husband, John Laurens.” The endless questions about my health and my pregnancy were … less pleasant.

“I don’t see my father anywhere,” John said, scanning the room as we paused by the refreshment table for a breather. 

“Well, he did step down,” I said. John would have seen Ex-Senator Laurens if he were here, tall as they both were. 

“He’s still got the money and connections to be a power,” John said. “But hey, I didn’t want to see him anyway.”

“The DR’s are trying to distance themselves from him,” I reminded John. “Inviting him tonight would do the opposite.” And he was losing money hand-over-fist, actually, paying for the lawyers. His allies had been keeping the investigation off his back, and when they abandoned him … 

“True,” John said, finally no longer craning his neck. “Jefferson is here, though. And he is wearing the atrocity.”

“You say that as if he had only one,” I murmured. “Let’s go try to avoid an incident.” I cleared my throat. “Ah, I mean, pay our respects.” 

“Of course,” John said, and his chuckling lasted all the way across the room to Jefferson. 

“Secretary Jefferson,” I said, politely, “Mr. Madison. Hello.” Madison turned toward us, smiling with more than usual enthusiasm. 

“Senator Burr,” he said, “Excellent. Mr. Laurens, excuse me, I need to borrow your husband for a moment.” I nodded at Madison and let go of John’s arm. He kissed my cheek. “Thomas,” Madison said, and beckoned us away to a corner of the room.

“Angelica Schuyler is running for President,” Jefferson said. “Adams, we know. He’s easy, no support except die-hard Federalists.”

“What about Angelica?” Madison turned to me, suggesting ‘you know her’ with no more than a lifted eyebrow. First name for the woman, last for the man. To be fair, there were a lot of Schuylers.

“Angelica will collect a bunch of supporters who want another woman in the White House, but she’ll also lose misogynists.” I said. “She won’t bother to pander to them. And of course she isn’t white.” Madison nodded.

“I’d rather have Adams,” Jefferson said. “He’s practically anti-charismatic.” Hamilton had said it first, and better. 

“Angelica’s smart, unapologetic, and young,” I said. “You might be able to get her there.” 

“Tricky,” Madison said. “Could go either way.” I nodded. 

“Less experience, and none in an executive role.” The soreness in my abdomen increased abruptly. “Ugh,” I said, rubbing it. 

“What?” Jefferson looked legitimately concerned. “Burr?”    


“Kicked,” I said. “She might pick a VP candidate to balance that.”

“Not Eliza?” Jefferson did not look soothed -- possibly my pain still showed. I made the effort to smooth my face. 

“Eliza’s busy,” I said. Madison had pulled out a slip of paper, and offered it to me. 

“ _ Hamilton?”  _ I asked, reading the top name. “Not given the current Federalist in-party politics. He’s aiming for permanent secretary of the Treasury.” I pulled out a pen and wrote ‘no THANK GOD’ next to his name; followed by a very crude megaphone. “Pickney,” I read, “Yes, he’s fairly likely.” I wrote a question mark next to his name along with a -_-. “I don’t think she’ll pick John Adams,” I went on, striking through his name and writing ‘ASSHOLE.’ “Though she might see if Abigail can be dragged out of her ret--ow, her retirement.” I put a wiggly question mark next to her and wrote ‘many convince.’ Madison and Jefferson both opened their mouths, but I spoke over them. “Oh, hey, add Elizabeth Warren. I know she’s always claiming to be perfectly happy where she is, but she could well ow suggest someone.” I added her name to the bottom and underlined it, writing ‘POTENTIAL ADVICE. MANY FLIRT.’ “Ugh,” I muttered, wincing again. Madison raised the stern eyebrow that meant ‘you had better explain yourself.’ I knew better than to ignore that.

“Braxton-Hicks contractions,” I said, “I’ve had them before.” That satisfied them for a moment while they debated who Elizabeth Warren might suggest and I read over the list. “Oh, heavens, no, she will not choose Jane Jay.” I added as I wrote ‘fuck no, pity?’ next to her name. “She’s incredibly unpopular, ow, and they want her for the Supreme Court if the fuss over the BTT ever dies down, ow.” Something crinkled. I glanced down and discovered that the list of vice presidential possibilities was crumbled in my fist. 

“Hospital,” Jefferson said. “You look the way my wife did when she went into labour.” He grabbed my arm and tugged. Madison hovered awkwardly. 

“And this is why you do not steal my husband from me!” John extracted my arm from Jefferson’s grip and took over dragging me. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen, I’m sure Burr will talk politics with you later.”

“Of course,” I said, “Send me an email, if you have anything you’d particularly like my opinion on ow.” 

Welp. Time to find out what it was like to have a baby.


	21. Sleep? Whoops…

“I still don’t see why we had to come,” I muttered, rubbing my eye, exhausted. 

“John, I know we’re exhausted, but this is one of the few things I  _ have _ to attend, especially because of the whole Jefferson debacle.”

“Right,” I muttered, leaning back in the car and closing my eyes. “How long do we have to stay?” I momentarily forgot how to open my eyes.

Burr gently patted my leg. “Not long. Besides, Mariah is staying the whole night anyway so we can get some sleep.”

“Sweet,” I muttered, feeling the piece of paper in my pocket that had Angelica’s name on top; the thing I was sure Burr had been looking for to give Angelica and one of the few reasons we had to come to this thing in the first place.

“Come on,” Burr said, nudging my knee with his. “We’re here.” I felt the car stopped and reluctantly opened my eyes. 

“Nerg,” I muttered as Burr climbed out first. I rubbed my eyes and followed him, taking his hand before hearing the familiar voice of ponytailed megaphone.

“--enjoying this,” Hamilton was saying to a reporter. “He’s never gonna be president now,” he added, smiling smugly.

“Senator Burr!” a reporter called. Burr turned, pulling me with him. Ugh. Stalling.

“Yes?” He asked. I rubbed my eye. Did the lights need to be this bright? This wasn’t even an official event.

“What is your reaction to the sexual assault accusations against Secretary Jefferson?” the reporter nearly shouted. Was that necessary? Was any of this noise necessary?

“I’m sure any investigation will reveal that Senator Jefferson acted true to his character,” Burr replied. I rubbed my eyes. Neutral as always. I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head on his shoulder. Burr stumbled back a little with my weight.

“Excuse me,” I said to the reporters, “But Theodosia and Frances have been keeping us incredibly busy, and we’re exhausted. We’re gonna go shake some hands and be on our way.” I grabbed Burr and marched him inside.

“That’s one way to do it,” Burr mused.

“You’re more tired than me. How are you functional?” I demanded.

“I’m used to working on minimal to no sleep, and you’ve done the midnights more often this week,” Burr replied. “I’ve won debates this tired before. Not something I’d recommend, but hey, gotta get the job done.”

“I never work this tired,” I said. Which was mostly true. I knew better than to work this tired.

“You have life in your hands,” Burr reminded me. “Besides, your patients are obliging enough to  _ want _ you to get some sleep. Frances and Theodosia want things  _ now, _ because respect for your parents is overrated.”

“Or nonexistent before you’ve discovered your toes and mobility,” I muttered. Burr wrapped his hand around my shoulder and patted it. 

“Welcome to fatherhood.”

“How long do we have to stay?” I asked again.

“Well, we need to say hi to all the Schuylers, Hamilton, Washington and all the other important people. Then, we can leave.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Lemme go to the bathroom, and I’ll be back. Try to knock a few out while I’m gone, won’t you?”

Burr chuckled. “Sure.” He wandered off.

“John!” A voice called. I turned around.

“Angelica!” I called, as happy as I could be while still not being in bed. 

“How are you doing?” she asked. “The kids keeping you busy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Oh, I have this for you from Burr,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the paper.”

“John,” she asked carefully. “How tired are you?” 

“Unbelievably,” I answered, shaking my head. “Why?”

“This wasn’t meant for me,” she said, reading the list. “Though I am enjoying the comments. Huh, hadn’t thought of her. Definitely not VP, though. She’d be better as secretary of defense.”

“Oops,” I muttered. Whelp. I suddenly didn’t have to pee anymore. 

“No worries. There’s nothing particularly confidential,” Angelica said, chuckling. “I am enjoying the megaphone next to Hamilton’s name, though.” I wasn’t entirely sure what to say. “Anyway, go home and get some sleep. I’ll go release your husband so you two can leave.” She hugged me. “Say hi to the kids for me won’t you?”

“Okay,” I said, baffled. Burr was gonna be pissed. I looked around for him. The Federalists ran slightly more to dfab, but they mostly wore heels, so the height difference was minimal. Burr did not stick out. He’s not a short man, just not tall. 

Angelica emerged from the crowd a few minutes later, dragging Burr by the wrist behind her. She was cackling. Cackling and holding a much less crumpled piece of paper than the one I’d handed her. Burr’s present, no doubt.

“Can we go now?” I asked, knowing the answer. 

“John, look,” Angelica said, holding out a cartoon of an incredibly busty female Hamilton standing firmly on a massive pile of coins in the shape of a ponytail, looked confused, with a dominatrix pulling him in one direction and a hilariously-motherly figure pulling him in the other while. Looking closer, a camera and a brain were sitting within the tails of the whip the dominatrix held. 

I chuckled. “Ah yes, Hamilton, the beautiful heroine, torn between Washington and Eliza.”

Angelica smiled. “Yep. Now go home. Both of you. Neither of you are awake. Get some sleep.” She patted Burr on the back. “See you tomorrow, Burr. Thanks for the spying, John.”

“What?” Burr asked, confused.

Angelica pulled out the paper I’d given her. Burr blinked. “What’s that?” He paused. “Wait. Is that-?”  
“Yep,” Angelica said. “I like your comments.”

“Sorry,” I said, hanging my head. I really didn’t know how bad this was.

“Ugh,” Burr said. “Remind me to never leave anything even vaguely sensitive lying around the house. I have a safe for a reason.”

“To be fair,” I said. “You were going into labor at the time.” I paused and considered the implications of throwing Burr over my shoulder and storming out. “Bed?”

“Yes, yes,” Angelica said, pushing at us. “Out the back door to avoid the paparazzi, and then home with the both of you.” I hugged her good-bye and wished her good luck.

“Not that you need it,” Burr said. She laughed and shooed us out.

“Is it really that bad?” I asked Burr in the stairwell.

“What, the paper?” I nodded. “Oh, that’s inconvenient, and it’d be unfortunate for the D-Rs to find out about it, but I was talking about this sexual assault scandal.”

“Oh, phew,” I said. Burr sighed. 

“I’m glad you were the one who picked it up. If Mrs. Reynolds had, she would have taken it to her husband, and…” he let his voice trail off tiredly. 

“Yeah,” I said. “Seriously, fuck that guy.” Burr chuckled, and we went home to bed. 

Gosh I love my bed, though I do prefer when Burr is there with me.


	22. All Your Fault

When Jefferson turned up fuming, I debated claiming exhaustion. ‘I was too tired to think straight’ would be a lovely excuse, except that I needed him to believe in my continued rationality.

“What the hell did you think you were saying?” Jefferson slammed the door closed behind him. I got up without responding, and edged by him toward the it. “Burr!” He was yelling in my face now, but I got the door open. 

“Is the shouting necessary?” I asked. “It is possible to convey the exact same point at a much lower volume.” Jefferson glowered at me.

“I would like to talk  _ in private _ ,” he snarled. I raised an eyebrow.

“But how could I persuade anyone I hadn’t succumbed to your,” I paused delicately, “Magnetism?” I shook my head, and batted my eyes at him. “No, no, the door had best stay open, so we don’t do something we’d … regret.” Jefferson sputtered beautifully. He’d never really gotten over the fact that I was a man. He was trying too hard to be heterosexual. I slowly circled him so his back was to the door. So I could see anyone else entering my office, of course; definitely not so Emily could sneak in and listen. 

“Burr, we’re on the same  _ side _ ,” Jefferson said, leaning into me. I considered kissing his nose. “How can we present a united front if you make statements spelling out that I’m guilty?”

“I don’t recall spelling out anything,” I said, raising an eyebrow. I checked over Jefferson’s shoulder when I saw a movement; which turned out to be a ponytail...no no no no nope nope NOPE. This was definitely not going to help. 

“Jeffs, Burr, as much as I appreciate you validating half my governmental rpf, don’t you two need to...breathe?” Hamilton asked, head poking into my office. That was far more than I needed to know about Hamilton’s life outside of work. Not that I didn’t know where he posted it -- I could have read it if I wanted to-- but still.

“What’s the other half?” Jefferson asked, almost reflexively. Oh no. 

“There’s three wildly inaccurate Me/Eliza, Eliza wouldn’t let me post the accurate ones, there’s a ton of you/Madison,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at Jefferson. “Some you/Angelica from way back when,” he added, batting his eyes at me. “Some of the personality-accurate congressional ones, a few about the kids growing up in awesome ways, one Lafayette/Armitage in a sexy spy thriller, though that might be Mulligan/Everyone else, not sure...”

I covered my face with my hands as I heard Emily’s laugh from right outside the door. “This is neither the time nor place for that,” I said, sighing. Jefferson looked rather steamrolled. 

Hamilton shrugged. “To be fair, he asked.”

“Fair enough,” I muttered. “Why are you here?”

“To invite you to lunch,” he said. “Eliza says you need a break, even if it’s just for an hour. The  _ full _ hour.”

I groaned. Yes, I was tired, but I was managing. “Not today,” I said. “Sometime next week when I have a full hour of time.”

“You have one on Wednesday, senator,” Emily called from her desk. “As long as you don’t mind skipping your fifteen minutes of self pity and half hour of grumbling about….this week it looks like it’s going to be...your fellow senators.”

Hamilton gasped like a scandalized grandmother in a bad period piece. “Not the grumbling, we  _ have _ to have the grumbling.” He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and looked up at the ceiling. 

“Well,” Jefferson said, stepping back and giving us a smile that  _ I did not like _ ; and not in the I-will-be-writing-erotic-fanfiction-about-this way, but in the I-will-kill-your-friends-and-family-to-remind-you-of-my-love way.  “It looks like you two have a date.” My hand had left my face -- I returned it and added the other one.

“Oh, look at that,” I said, “There goes my choir girl reputation; taken by an accusation -- or, no, accusations can be refuted. A joke, a snigger, an  _ insinuation _ that Hamilton and I are sleeping together.” I stood up straight. “Well, at least it’s not a secret wife.”

“A what?” Jefferson paused in the doorway, looking back at me for a moment.

“Oh, you weren’t there for that,” Hamilton said cheerfully, “In college, everyone was  _ certain _ Burr had a secret wife.”

“It turned out,” I said, “To be me, but by my old name. No-one seemed to have thought of that.”

“It was highly entertaining,” Hamilton said. “Most of the girls stopped flirting with him. The  _ guys _ however…”

“Left me alone because they understood boundaries?” I said. “At least most of them, anyway.” Jefferson slowly edged away. 

“Anyway,” Hamilton said. “We good for Wednesday?” That was a first. Maybe Eliza made him promise not to take too long. 

“I suppose,” I said, shrugging.

“Sweet. Now you two, continue your makeout session. Sorry to interrupt!” He walked out, ponytail swinging. Jefferson sighed in relief and attempted to avoid Hamilton’s notice on his own way out. I raised an eyebrow.

“Jeff!” Hamilton said, in apparent delight. Jefferson twitched visibly. “You always take full hour lunch breaks. Want to go grab a bite?”

I walked out of my office and over to Emily. “Do you really schedule grumbling and self-pity into my schedule?”

“You do it anyway,” she shrugged. “Thought I’d make it official.”

I sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I’m going to grab a sandwich.” Emily silently handed me one from the cafe downstairs without looking up from her computer.

“This is why you pay me the big bucks,” she said.

“Yes, and definitely not because you’re ignoring me for minesweeper,” I retorted before going back into my office and closing the door. 


	23. Babies!!!

 

A knock sounded on the door just as the eggs finished. “Come in!” I called, having left the door open when I got the paper. No more Mulligan gowns. Pity.

“Hi John!” Mariah said cheerfully, waving as I scooped eggs onto two plates. “Where are the girls?”

“Still asleep,” I said. I glared at the bedroom door. “And so is my husband. Hold on a second.” Mariah chuckled as I stalked into the bedroom and threw back the covers. “Aaron, get out of bed. You’re late. Unless you want me to call you in sick.”

“Coffee,” Burr muttered, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. I handed him a mug. 

“As cute as you are asleep, you need to go to work,” I said, doing my best to ruffle his non-existent hair. 

“Alright, I’ll be out in a minute,” Burr muttered, downing the coffee and getting out of bed. “Let me get dressed.”

“Good,” I said. “Can’t leave Hamilton on his own, after all,” I said cheerfully, leaving the bedroom and closing the door. 

“So,” Mariah said as I sat down at the table to eat breakfast. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

“A mysterious test tube broke at work, so it looks like I get the morning off while they try to figure out what was inside,” I said, shrugging. “Looks like I get to hang with you and the girls.”

“Oh no, that’s not good,” Mariah said, frowning, “Not that I’m not glad to have you, but that could be dangerous!”

“Welcome to our government,” I muttered. “Burr could rant for hours.”

“I do rant for hours,” Burr muttered, coming out of the bedroom fully dressed and ready for the day. “Not as much as Hamilton, though. What about?”

“Not labeling test tubes,” I said as he wandered into the kitchen in search of a breakfast. I hadn’t managed to go down to the bakery and get croissants, but there were some perfectly good cheese scones. If he'd woken up earlier he'd have gotten to have eggs like a civilized being. 

“What?” Burr came out with a scone and a raised eyebrow. 

“Someone didn’t label a test tube at work and now there’s widespread panic ‘cause it broke,” I said cheerfully. Burr took a breath, but we were all distracted by the first whimper of the morning. 

“I’ll take her,” Mariah said. 

“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll be in in a moment for the other one.” I kissed Burr on the cheek. He rolled his eyes at me, and kissed me back.

“You stay safe,” he said, “I know I can trust  _ you  _ to label your work.”

“Yes, dear,” I said, “Have fun at work!” He waved to me from the doorway. The sound of his leaving woke the other baby, so I went to quiet her with cuddles and a bottle.

“So,” I said, turning to Mariah. “How’s your little boy?”

“Enjoying preschool so far,” Mariah said, shrugging. “He’s super obsessed with cleaning now.”

“Good for him,” I said, chuckling. “Is your house super clean or has he accidentally hidden everything from you two?”

“He just hides his toys from himself most of the time,” Mariah said shrugging, holding up her baby to burp. “He spent most of yesterday trying to find his stuffed dog.”

“Where was it?” I asked, as my baby finished too and I held her up to burp. 

“In his crib,” Mariah said, chuckling. “Turned out he just couldn’t see it and panicked.”

“Well that happens, doesn’t it?” I asked, smiling as my baby burped. I looked her over as I bounced her. This was Theodosia Emmi, so Maria was holding Frances Eleanor. “You know,” I said, “At some point we’re going to stop calling them by their full first and middle names.” Mariah chuckled. “And Hamilton’s gone and acquired a Franny, so we’re going to have to call Frances Eleanor something else.” I shook my head sadly.

“I call them Theo and Helen,” Mariah said. 

“Theo,” I said to Theodosia Emmi, “Does that sound go to you, sweetie?” She giggled at me and flailed. “So how’s stuff at home?” I pretended not to be watching Mariah. Her ears warmed and she looked down and mumbled something about the stresses that the Jefferson scandal was putting her husband under. I nodded amiably, and made sure to have a  _ lot _ of conversation between that and the mention that Burr knew more than one good divorce lawyer. 


	24. Bite The Bullet

“So Burr,” Hamilton said, waggling his eyebrows at me.

“Yes, Hamilton?” I asked. Why did I agree to this lunch? Oh right. Manipulative coworkers. 

“Can I call your Frances, ‘Frances II’?” he asked. “I mean, we did name ours first.”

“That is the opposite of how that titling works,” I said, hand over my eyes. “Besides, we don’t really call our Frances, ‘Frances’.”

“Fine,” Hamilton said.

“Hamilton, if you’re not careful, Burr will never agree to lunch with us again, and then he’ll be working through lunch--” Eliza began.

“And then he’d beat me in debates and Jefferson would win. Alright. Subject switch,” Hamilton interrupted. 

Eliza sighed. “That was not what I was going for, but whatever works for you,” she muttered. How did she deal with this man?

“How’s Philip?” I asked after we ordered our food. 

“He’s doing well,” Eliza said, smiling. “Enjoying school. And has quite the crush on this little girl in his class.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Hamilton said, chuckling. “He wrote her three poems and a long-winded speech about how pretty she was.”

“That must have been entertaining for the class,” I said, laughing. 

“His comparisons were weird, and he has no sense of rhythm,” Hamilton said.

“What were they?” I asked.

“Something along the lines of ‘you’re prettier than Jefferson and more useful than capitalism. My dad is Alexander Hamilton. I like you. Wanna have a play date?’” Eliza answered. I burst out laughing.

“His teachers called, highly concerned,” Hamilton said as he continued to laugh.

“Well, at least he’s respectful,” I said, laughing along with Hamilton. Maybe I should do this more often.

“His speech wasn’t much different,” Eliza said. “Apparently he spent ten minutes deconstructing Jefferson, five minutes stating random facts about her and him, and a minute or two explaining why they would be good together.” Our food arrived and we began to dig in.

“Well, if she’s impressed by that, she’s the one,” I said, chuckling.

“Apparently she lost interest two minutes in and went and played with some other boy that recess,” Hamilton said, shrugging. “Hey, you can’t win ‘em all.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure his technique will improve.” I paused for effect, taking a sip of my water, “Assuming he can find a decent model.” Hamilton sputtered, dramatically offended. Eliza snorted.

“Perhaps we should direct him to you,” she said. I blinked, pretending to be mildly surprised rather than truly appalled.

Hamilton sputtered. “Two lessons from Burr and Phillp’ll elope with his Theodosia! Or Angelica’s kid! Or someone equally unlikely but weirdly suited. And accidentally pick election day.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please,” I said. “I have more tact than that.” Eliza finished her meal and rose. 

“Excuse me, boys, but I promised the Mulligans I’d drop by,” she said, pulling on her coat and picking up her purse. “Hamilton, make sure you two take the  _ full _ hour and don’t touch  _ anything _ until I get back. Burr,” she turned to me “good to see you. We should do this more often. Have a good rest-of-your day!” She headed out, fairly quickly.

Hamilton looked at me. “I don’t know about you, but I’m done,” he said, smiling and reaching for his wallet. 

“Here, let me,” I said, reaching for mine.

“Aw come on, Burr,” Hamilton complained. “You paid last time. It’s my turn.” I couldn’t remember this alleged ‘last time,’ but I figured I’d let it slide. Not worth arguing over.

“All right,” I said, putting my wallet away.  

“Shall we go for a walk?” Hamilton asked, getting up. “We still have about 15 minutes left.”

“Sure,” I said. I hadn’t gone on a proper leisurely stroll in  _ ages _ . 

“So,” Hamilton said as we wandered around the park, “How are the girls?”

“Doing well,” I said. “They’re already sleeping through the night.”

“Your kids would,” Hamilton muttered. A gunshot rang out and echoed off the surrounding buildings. Wait. What? I grabbed Hamilton, who was busy looking around in surprise, and dragged him with me to the ground as a second shot rang out.

“You ok?” I asked.

“Fine,” he replied, panting slightly. “What the hell?”

I raised my head slightly as Secret Service swarmed and mobilized and caught a glimpse of a white woman with long brown hair wearing a Jefferson campaign t-shirt and holding a gun before she disappeared from my line of sight. 


	25. "Don't Worry"

There are few things more disturbing than checking your phone as you head to a late lunch break and discovering that your husband has texted you “Both fine, don’t worry.” Although, given the fact that I read the  _ most recent  _ text first what I actually got went as follows:

_ 12:42 From: Burr. _ Reassured your siblings. They panicked.

_ 12:41 From: Burr. _ Room 231, the Secret Service will let you in.

_ 12:38 From: Burr. _ And  _ yes, _ I have cleaned them. Actually, got it done by professionals, since we were in the hospital anyway.

_ 12:38 From: Burr. _ Well, scrapes and bruises from hitting the pavement.

_ 12:36 From: Burr. _ Both fine, don’t worry.

Naturally, I freaked out. Since my phone was right there in my hand, I called him. 

“Hello, love _ , _ ” he said, sounding tired and relieved, but, as promised, largely fine.

“What happened?” I asked, nay, demanded.

“Um….,” Burr said on the other end. Oh, this wasn’t good.

“Burr and I went to lunch!” A very loud and recognizable voice shouted, sounding weirdly happy, while Burr protested in the background. “And we got shot at!” I froze. 

“WHAT?!” I exclaimed. 

“Hamilton! Give Burr the phone back,” Eliza’s voice rang out as I hurriedly texted my boss that I wasn’t coming back to work. 

“Do I need to grab the kids and head back to New York?” I asked, digging the phone back into my ear. 

“I don’t  _ think _ so,” Burr said. “We’ll just need to be extra careful.” I jumped into my car and sped down the road towards the hospital.

“What do you mean, you don’t think so?” I demanded. “Have they already caught the shooter?”

“No. She slipped away--”

“So she’s still out there somewhere,” I said. “Waiting for another shot. What did she look like?” I scanned the crowd suspiciously.

“John, don’t do anything rash,” Burr said calmly.

“Rash?” I demanded. “You literally just got shot at!” I shouted. “Forgive me for not being completely rational!” I pulled into the hospital and ran inside. “John Laurens,” I said to the receptionist.

“Upstairs and to the left,” she said.

I slammed the door open and someone on the other side cried out in pain. I found I’d care later.

“Jeez John, you’ve done more damage than the shooter,” a voice complained.

“Burr,” I said, looking around. Both of the beds in the room were empty

“I’m right here,” Burr said tiredly, sitting against the wall. I sprinted over, giving him a quick once-over. 

“Are you ok?” I demanded.

“Yeah,” Burr said, smiling. “She missed.” I yanked him out of the chair and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh, thank God,” I said. 

“Thank your husband,” Hamilton said. “Who is very much not God. Although I must admit, a world run by Burr would be very well organized. It would also, however, be terminally boring.”

“If you ran the world no-one would sleep,” I said, running my hands over Burr’s back absently. He was leaning against me, drained. “What am I thanking Burr for?”

“Well,” Hamilton said, “When the first shot came, I was still looking around for the source of the noise when Burr landed on me. And then there were Secret Service people everywhere.” He smiled over my shoulder. I turned to see the President walking in on her wife’s arm, followed by Mulligan.

She looked absolutely exhausted. 

“Well,” Mulligan was saying, “Calling her off is step one.”

“You know this is going to be a PR nightmare, right?” Washington asked.

“You know her?” I demanded. What the hell?

“John,” Washington sighed. “It’s a long, complicated,  _ classified _ , story. Suffice to say, she will not do it again.”

“Knowing her, she’s halfway to Armenia by now,” Mulligan muttered. Was that jealousy I detected?

“She’s sitting in my chair at the oval office, waiting for me,” Washington said flatly. “Besides it’s not her fault Jefferson got into my files.” That perked everyone up.

“ _ Jefferson _ ?” Burr, Hamilton and I all asked at once. 

“Yep. Called a hit on you two,” Washington replied, nodding “No worries. I called it off. She won’t do it again.”

“Being president comes with a personal hitman?” Hamilton asked. “Maybe I should reconsider my career path.”

“NO!” everyone said, glaring at him. 

“She’s not a hitman,” Washington said. “She’s a terrified, traumatized, Cold War leftover.” I gaped at her.

“Jefferson,” I said, trying to make sure I had this straight, “Got into your files, so  _ my husband _ got shot at by a terrified traumatized Cold War leftover who is now sitting in the Oval Office and what we get is  _ she won’t do it again? _ ” I realized that I was shouting.

“I’m sorry,” Washington said. “I never should have left her contact information anywhere accessible.” She met my eyes. She’s never been very expressive, but even I could tell that she was spitting mad. And not, thankfully, at me. “You get higher security. You get a full and formal investigation.” She sighed, and went so far as to rub her face. “Unless things go horribly wrong, you get Jefferson in jail. Probably K-- the shooter-- too.”

“I was an actual target?” Burr was more surprised by this than I thought warranted, but he’s always had a slightly odd ego. I wriggled around to be standing behind him, both of us facing the President.

“Yes, Burr,” President Washington said, “You were a target. You and Hamilton both.”

“I’d love to see you put her behind bars, ma’am,” Mulligan said, grinning. “Wonder how long she’d last.”

“She’ll do the whole sentence if I told her to, and you know it,” Washington snapped. “The question is do we want her behind bars?”

“I do,” I said, glaring at Washington and Mulligan.

“She has a damn good defense,” Washington said, giving Mulligan a meaningful look. 

Mulligan gasped, eyes wide. “She wouldn’t.”

“Not if I tell her not to,” Washington said. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” Burr said, frowning slightly, “but in what world do you have so much power over someone else? If she has a good defense, I’d love to hear it, and isn’t it illegal to tell her not to use it? Also, it just doesn’t sound like you.”

Washington sighed again. “Most of those questions I have to answer somewhere significantly more private than here.” She turned to Mulligan before looking around the room. “I think we all need to have a very frank discussion.”


	26. America's Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Epic's Original Characters went and got involved, making everything as dark as the depths of Epic's soul. It is _still_ not my fault -will
> 
> ~~~

“The first thing you need to know about Kelsie,” the President said when we were all comfortably seated in the Oval Office, “Is that she appears to see no reason to do anything she hasn’t been ordered to do unless it might amuse her. That includes eat, sleep, and  _ breathe. _ ” She shook her head, and Lady Washington pressed a hand against her shoulder. 

“What do you mean?” I asked. That seemed odd, though to be frank amusement did seem to drive half of John’s decisions, while spite motivated at least 90% of Hamilton’s.

Washington took a very deep breath, trying to think. “No one knows the full story,” Mulligan helpfully filled in. “Quite frankly, at this point we’re terrified to ask her.”

Washington flipped to the end of the file on her desk, and pulled out the last sheet of paper. “When she was 18, in the 70s,  she joined a unit made up of people who faked their deaths so they could run extremely covert operations for the government,” Washington said. “Kinda a mix of the worst of the CIA and the military.”

“The problem?” I asked, looking between Mulligan and Washington as they eyed each other.

She flipped the page over and showed us the three-column list on the back. “This is the list of skills, assignments, and other important information she submitted upon entry.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” John said, squinting at the sheet. “Does that say Navy Seal training at the top?”

Washington nodded. “Yes it does.”

“How the hell does an 18 year old get Navy Seal training?” I asked. 

“The same way many teenagers end up in emotionally-damaging conversion therapy,” Washington sighed. “Only, instead of Christianity, her father’s blind devotion was to his country.”

“And so he trained her to serve her country,” John said, nodding. “How old?”

“John,” Mulligan said carefully.

“How old was she?” John demanded. Washington lowered her eyes to the page and took another deep breath.

“Six,” Mulligan interrupted, when she shrugged helplessly.

“SIX?” John demanded. “How the FUCK were her family and the government ok with this?”

“He faked her death,” Lady Washington said, “So he could brainwash her into blindly serving what he told her were the needs of her country.”

“To be fair,” Washington said weakly, “The car accident was a legitimate accident.” 

“That doesn’t justify the rest,” Mulligan snapped. 

“No,” Washington said, “It doesn’t. Kelsie joined the ghosts at sixteen. She’s outlived all but one of her coworkers, who were sane ages. She’s had no superior but the President since…” she paused and glanced upward slightly as if memories lived near the ceiling. “They officially stopped recruiting ghosts in the late 80s, so when the Berlin Wall fell, there weren’t that many left.”

“Her brainwashing, ma’am?” John asked. 

“Her father was dangerously in love with the United States of America,” Washington said, “And Capitalist supremacy.” She sighed. “Taught her America was everything. Perfect. Needed protection.” Washington flailed, slightly lost for words.

“And with a healthy dose of blackmail,” Mulligan interjected, “you get a girl who will do whatever her superior asks.”

“Anything?” I asked, doubtful. Even Hamilton had a line when it came to Washington asking him to do things. 

“Anything,” Washington confirmed. “They sent her on 15 suicidal missions. She survived all of them, clearly,” she added. 

“To clarify,” John said, sounding disbelieving, bordering on denial, “her  _ father _ sent her on suicide missions 15 times?” he demanded.

Mulligan chuckled darkly. “And I thought your father was bad,” he said. 

“Hang on,” John said. “Did she make me that ballgown? If so, why’s she living at yours?”

“Living implies she has things at our house. Like a toothbrush. Or clothes. All she does is occasionally sew and crash on our couch,”  Mulligan answered. 

“I told her to befriend the Mulligans,” Washington said. “I thought it would keep her out of trouble.”

“Cato made it his mission to find out as much as he could about her, especially since he had run into her before,” Mulligan said. “One of the kids eventually figured it out, since Cato was being too moral to think of it. I’ve known most of this for about a year.”

“How did Jefferson get information on her?” I asked. Washington smiled, finally with happiness.

“So,” she said. “To keep her busy, I’ve been having her write me reports on how to sort out different conflicts with different combinations of people in government. Usually, there’s something useful in there I can use, even if I would never actually send out the group suggested.”

“Like what?” I asked, curious.

Washington threw a packet at me. Well, more like a book. It was easily longer than any Hamilton monstrosity. The cover page read  **_"The Three Musketeers Sort Out Princeton’s Disorganization."_ **

“What?” I asked, opening it up and found, with a quick scan, that the paper was about me, Hamilton and Jefferson fixing the administrative disorganization within Princeton College. I chuckled as I read ‘if the admissions dean would quit her affair with the chair of the psychology department, she’d actually get her work done in a timely manner, which would really help. Set Hamilton on them to lecture about getting work done while having a very sexual relationship. It can be done.’

“Because of that,” Washington said, grinning, “I know far more about the inner workings of that college than I ever wanted to.” She gathered herself. “Anyway, on the last page of all of them, she includes her first name and phone number. Jefferson just happened to find one where he died at the end.” I flipped to the end of the one I was holding. Yep, neatly signed Kelsie -- but the phone number had been blacked out. Locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, very truly. 

“That seems awfully risky,” John said, frowning. It did seem a little odd. I glanced further up the page and discovered the Jefferson was indeed dead and we’d negotiated a multilateral nuclear disarmament treaty. Heavens, she was as bad as Hamilton. 

Washington rubbed her face. “She also added language that implied her own involvement with my permission near the end, some of it not so legal, so that’s why, I’m assuming, Jefferson knew he could get her to attempt the assassination by pretending to be me,” Washington added. “Fortunately, she only listens to me, so she won’t do anything like that again.”

“Why did she do it this time?” I asked. 

“She didn’t feel she could disobey orders that came through that channel,” Washington said. I raised an eyebrow at her. “She felt she had to assume it  _ was  _ me, even if those orders were, quote, ‘unlike you and also stupid in ways you aren’t stupid’. So she flubbed the assassination attempt to give me a chance to come to my senses.”

“How nice of her,” John spat. I sighed.

“That’s messed up.” I looked around the room. Lady Washington, lips tight with fury, Washington, sad and solemn, Mulligan, exhausted, Eliza, eyes raised to the ceiling, plotting. Her hand on Hamilton’s arm was beginning to loosen. Hamilton exploded into motion.

“We’ve got to get the media looking in the right direction -- Burr, did you see that shirt she was wearing?” I nodded. “If I say it it’ll sound like feuding. But you’re Jefferson’s ally -- you can say something.”

“Yes.” I interrupted him. “I’d better -- someone else is sure to have seen it too.” John made to move, and I squeezed his hands gently. He settled, tense. 

“Right, good good.” Hamilton paced back and forth across the room, dodging the furniture with the ease of long practice. “We’re going to need to hold an emergency press conference soon, if only to prove we aren’t dead. I can quote Pratchett -- always quote Pratchett if possible -- and you can--”

“Son,” Washington said.

“I’m not your son,” Hamilton said.

“More’s the pity,” Washington muttered. “Anyone want to hear Kelsie’s advice?”

“What?”

“Arrest Jefferson, let the party scramble, in a few years this’ll all blow over.” I considered saying something like, “Sounds like a Federalist’s point of view,” but decided against it. If Washington said Jefferson had called out a hit on us, Jefferson had, however improbably, however  _ stupidly,  _ called out a hit on us. What a mess. We couldn’t hide this -- Washington would never tolerate it. Which meant the Democratic Republican Party was going to have to deal with the fact that their -- our -- presidential nominee had tried to have someone assassinated. Which meant there was nothing to do  _ but  _ scramble. 

“Jefferson asked Kelsie to kill Hamilton and  _ me? _ ” I shook my head. “Did he tell her why?” 

“No,” Washington said. “She received, hang on, “ she shuffled papers for a moment, “‘Kill Hamilton. New text: Oh, and Burr if possible. New text: ASAP.’ And that’s it.” Mulligan leant forward. 

“She’s got theories, which she told me in typically cryptic fashion. For example: Jefferson doesn’t want to look at Burr anymore because he’s a man even when he’s pregnant. Which doesn’t seem a killing offense. Alternatively, Jefferson may not have liked your response to his sexual harassment scandal.”

“He might have thought it was a joke,” John said. “This is all pretty far-fetched. Not saying I don’t believe you, Madame President, you aren’t giving to joking and even Mulligan wouldn’t go this far, but Jefferson might have thought texting Kelsie would just be funny.”

“He is,” I added, “Kind of an idiot.”

“Which is exactly the sort of person we want to be president,” Hamilton snapped. Mulligan cocked his head to one side thoughtfully, and Washington looked down at her papers.

“No,” Lady Washington said, “He’d have been more eloquent if he were joking.” I ran my mind over Jefferson’s ‘jokes’.  _ Madison _ was given to terse, wry comments, but Jefferson loved persiflage almost as much as Hamilton. I sighed.

“This isn’t how he jokes.” I said. “But I don’t think he was taking it very seriously, either.” John looked at me. “Or he would have realised that this is incredibly  _ stupid. _ ” I shook my head. “You know, we don’t need to do this right now. In fact,  _ we _ probably don’t need to try to parse Jefferson’s thinking -- so called -- at all. We can leave that to the lawyers.”

“Burr’s right,” Mulligan said. I blinked up at him. “You’ve got the crucial bits, go assimilate. And tell the media you aren’t dead.”  

“There will be reporters everywhere,” I said, ignoring Hamilton’s furious plotting. “All we have to do,” I shoved myself out of the chair and to my feet, “Is not avoid them.”


End file.
